


Perfer et Obdura

by dioscureantwins



Series: This is where I began [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Brotherly Love, Character Study, Drama, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Kidfic, Kidlock, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Sherlock's history in his own words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 82,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The need for something stronger to reduce the blurry whirlwind of emotions raging through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes makes him grit his teeth. He’d sell his kingdom for some horse right now to dull the anger and pathetic loneliness clouding his brain. Better to feel nothing, nothing at all than to feel this, this… He’s not going to, of course. He’s not <i>stupid</i>. But oh, this poisonous gauze he’s wrapped in, permeating through the pores of his skin to eat away at his insides. It’s hateful, this loss of control over himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once more betaed by the wonderful susako. Thank you so much for your ongoing willingness, support and great help.
> 
> In this series I’m exploring Sherlock’s past and his relationship with Mycroft, from his earliest beginnings up to the time he ends up sharing the flat with John at Baker Street 221B. In Book II Sherlock had to learn to deal with the vagaries of the world. Still those were nothing compared to what he will encounter during the next few years. I’d be very happy if you’d join me for the trip again. I’ll try to update once a week or every two weeks.

John has been busy the whole week laying the groundwork for a date. All the signs are there. Last Saturday, coming down to a late breakfast after his monthly pub night with Lestrade, he wore a happy and dazed look all through the meal right up to the moment Sherlock started telling him about the satisfying results he had obtained the previous evening with regard to the mysterious Newcastle ballpoint accident.

“The mother didn’t fall while holding a pen, conveniently stabbing herself in the eye to cause her own death and have the insurance company transfer £250,000 into her daughter’s bank account. Even though she was found lying on the floor there’s no way she could have fallen down so fast the impact would have caused the pen to penetrate right through the eyeball into her brain. The tissue of the eyeball is after all, quite resilient. I obtained conclusive proof the pen was shot at her with the aid of a crossbow.”

“Fantastic,” John murmured, buttering his toast. “I suppose I shouldn’t be amazed you managed to smuggle a crossbow into Bart’s and persuaded Molly to let you use it in her morgue.” He added some strawberry jam to his toast and took a bite.

“Of course I did no such thing, John,” Sherlock answered him, affronted at the ridiculousness of the idea. Did John really believe him to be that irresponsible? He wasn’t going to endanger others deliberately by conducting an experiment with a deathly weapon in such a public place where anyone might enter any moment. John would tell him no doubt he could have put up a sign warning people to keep out, but then he would have to refer John to the interesting little treatise he has posted on the website three years ago, concerning the number of accidental deaths that occur each year precisely because people are idiots, and tend to ignore such warnings.

Deciding to skip the dangers of getting involved in a lengthy argument about a subject he wasn’t interested in right then, he told John: “I conducted the experiment here in the safety of the flat.”

John’s eyes opened wide. He stopped his munching, his throat working convulsively instead, before he covered his mouth with his hand and started coughing into it. 

“John,” Sherlock asked but John didn’t answer, his whole body shaking, racked by the coughs, eyes bulging and the colour of his face turning into a beetroot red. Panicked, Sherlock darted around the table and started thumping him on the back until John held up his hand, grabbed his mug and started drinking his tea in long desperate gulps.

“Christ,” he muttered, replacing his mug on the table.

“Are you all right, John?” Sherlock enquired, his hand rubbing anxiously between John’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, fine. Fine. It’s just …” John spun round to look at him. “Please tell me you didn’t take target practice at loose eyeballs with a crossbow in our kitchen.”

Sherlock pulled an ugly face. “Of course not, John. What good would that have been? The eye was still in her head when the pen was shot. Molly lent me a head to experiment upon. I promised to return it to her at around eleven at the latest so I’ll be off now. Take care while eating the rest of your meal.”

He went into the kitchen to collect the head out of the fridge. Behind his back he heard John’s mumbled: “Yeah, thanks.”

Sherlock returned to Baker Street a few hours later to find John busily texting while ensconced in his chair with the sports pages. At Sherlock’s entrance he threw his flatmate a furtive glance before settling his eyes on his phone again.

Sherlock tipped himself into his chair with a sigh.

“Women are such boring creatures, wouldn’t you agree?” he began.

“Hmm hmm.”

“They never learn,” Sherlock carried on. “Molly Hooper is a fine pathologist, among the best of her profession, and yet she insists on turning into a blushing schoolgirl whenever a man walks into her morgue. She kept offering me coffee again as if she’s some kind of servant. Really.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust at her behaviour.

John tore his gaze away from the mesmeric sight of his phone screen to settle it on Sherlock for a moment.

“Not just _a_ man, Sherlock,” he said. “ _You_ entering her lab sends all her sense flying straight out of the window. Get it right, Sherlock. You’re usually so proud of being more exact than the rest of us.”

With those words he rose out of his chair and stalked out of their living room.

Baffled by John’s sudden urge to correct him concerning his views of Molly’s attentions, Sherlock remained seated, staring at the door through which his flatmate had disappeared.

Over the course of the next few days the situation deteriorated further. On Wednesday Sherlock sat bent over the remains of a forty-five year old woman whose body had washed up on the southern bank of the Thames near Battersea Railway Bridge, explaining to a riveted Lestrade why they weren’t looking at a suicide but a murder by the husband. He was in fine form, pointing out all the evidence that was staring them in the face, if only they would care to observe, when he halted mid-sentence, struck by the absence of John’s subtle noises of appreciation of his genius in the background.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up at his friend to discover him staring at his phone as if it held the final solution to all the world’s problems, thumbs flying over the keys.

In a huff, Sherlock settled his attention on the corpse again, ignoring Lestrade’s amused smile.

After five minutes he had had enough and rose with a grand sweep of his coattails. 

“If you need any further guidance, you know where to find me,” he scoffed and strode off with John in tow, eyes still glued to the screen.

Back at the flat Sherlock collapsed on the sofa in his most dramatic manner but this elicited no response from John at all, not even a chuckle of amusement.

***

As they sit eating their takeaway that evening, John announces he’s going out tomorrow night. He bumped into a very nice girl during his pub night with Lestrade and she has agreed to go to the cinema with him and have a bite to eat after.

“So much I’d gathered,” Sherlock says and stabs his mezze quite severely with his fork. 

John starts saying something when his phone buzzes with a text alert. The next two minutes he spends texting frantically with a stupid grin on his face. 

“You were saying?” he asks after he has stashed his phone in the pocket of his trousers again.

“Nothing, John. Nothing at all.”

John spends the evening writing up the case of the solitary cyclist while Sherlock sits plucking the strings of his violin. Every now and then John throws him a question for further clarification over his shoulder to which he responds with grunts and snorts. 

“How about ‘You’ll never bike alone’ for a title?” John enquires.

“Just do as you see fit, John,” Sherlock enjoins, “I’m off to bed.”

“Sherlock? What…”

“Good night.”

He uses the bathroom and throws the door to his bedroom shut with more force than he intended, wincing at the volume of the racket he’s creating. After struggling out of his jacket he plunges down on the bed and fumbles in the drawer of the night table for a nicotine patch.

The need for something stronger to reduce the blurry whirlwind of emotions raging through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes makes him grit his teeth. He’d sell his kingdom for some horse right now to dull the anger and pathetic loneliness clouding his brain. Better to feel nothing, nothing at all than to feel this, this… He’s not going to, of course. He’s not _stupid_. But oh, this poisonous gauze he’s wrapped in, permeating through the pores of his skin to eat away at his insides. It’s hateful, this loss of control over himself. 

_Victor! The bells clanging furiously to announce the big society wedding to the world and he was reduced to a gawking spectator as Victor slowly ascended the steps to the cathedral with his best man beside him. In the background Mycroft was whispering to some indeterminate figure beneath his umbrella…_

Sherlock presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing so hard flashes of colour spring up in front of him. He groans.

It’s wrong to compare John – what he has with John – to Victor. John’s friendship is so different, so much more precious than the affair with Victor. Affair, odious word. However, Victor chose to turn what they had, their love, into nothing but an affair. Illicit, dirty, a passing fling of no significance, to be cast aside and forgotten the moment he was ordered to do so.

Had he spared a thought to Sherlock when he promised to worship her with his body in that big cathedral packed to the rafters with the best and brightest in the land?

He’s getting sentimental. He should stop this.

With a sigh he takes off his shoes and socks and chucks them under his bed. 

At least with John there’s no chance of a repetition of such profound betrayal. Good, thoroughly decent, straight bloke that he is. The disappointment keeps exploding in his chest, bright points of light shattered over the sky like the fireworks lighting up London on New Year’s Eve.

John’s stance on their friendship is obvious. They’re two blokes sharing a flat that they wouldn’t be able to afford on their own. The arrangement works perfectly for both of them. They’re great pals. John’s content to lounge around with Sherlock at Baker Street right now, but the moment he finds a woman to marry he’ll be off. Sherlock will be expected to act as best man at the wedding and he shivers with vague distaste as if he’s already milling around the throngs of wedding guests assembled in some odious semi-posh hotel, Molly’s eyes following him with a flicker of hope, because one wedding must lead to another surely?

The wife will insist on a country practice because London is no place for children to grow up. They’ll end up in a cottage in Berkshire and John will expect him to stay with them every few months and play Uncle Sherlock to the children. He hates children, nor is he particularly fond of dogs and he can already picture the great panting yellow retriever that will jump up at him and leave a trail of dog hairs all over his suit. Over the years he will be invited less and less, because what is the point in enduring company one doesn’t really enjoy and the wife will be dead-set against him anyway. Until the time comes that Sherlock will decline the invitation, having had quite enough. John will protest and cajole a bit before giving up and that will have been the end of the John Watson episode in his life.

 _Christ!_ Sherlock blinks his eyes rapidly, not wishing to acknowledge the reason for doing so, tearing off the nicotine patch and applying another instead. He snorts with impatience at his stupid weakness. Giving in to feelings of jealousy is not going to do him one bit of good. It is jealousy, he supposes, jealousy of this dull woman that will steal John’s attention from him because John’s hoping she will provide him with something Sherlock will never be able to give.

Even if John were desiring it but John is the one always stressing to everyone they’re not a couple, he’s not gay, he and Sherlock are not in a relationship… as if it matters what other people think? Sherlock couldn’t care less, but then he’s accepted most people are idiots, while John still hasn’t. 

Besides, John needs the sex, much as Sherlock really craves that shot right now. His right hand trails the skin on the inside of his left forearm, pushing on a vein. John is just a man and men want to get off. Sherlock should know. So John is on the lookout constantly for someone to sleep with and one day he’ll meet a woman who’ll decide John is actually worth battling over with Sherlock. She’ll dig her claws into John who will be happily assisting her because she will shower him with sex to bind him to her until he will ask her to marry him and…well, no need to revisit those painful images again.

All because of John’s libido. Maybe Sherlock should start lacing his tea with crypoterone acetate? However that would result into John suffering from atrocious liver complaints and that wouldn’t do at all.

A vague noise enters his ear, coming from the direction of the door. Sherlock glares at it before gliding from his bed and creeping towards the door noiselessly. With a swift motion he yanks it open. John stands caught in the small passageway, hands fluttering nervously.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock barks.

John stutters. “Nothing… I was doing nothing. I was just wondering whether you’re all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” he snaps. “Why shouldn’t I be?” He looks down his nose at John, his flatmate’s flinch proving he’s managed a look even more withering than usual. “And you have a _date_ to prepare for, haven’t you? Please don’t let me keep you from anticipating an event that must be of such massive importance to you.”

He slams the door shut into John’s amazed face and balls his hands into fists until it feels like he’s driving his fingers straight through his palms. 

_Damn you, John Watson. Damn you!_

***

Warburton and Pleasance have a new hobby. Every five minutes they engage in a belching competition. The winner is the one who manages to produce the loudest burp, preferably accompanied by an explosive, smelly fart. They descend into a helpless round of giggling whenever they manage to accomplish this feat, congratulating each other on the advance of their endeavours. 

Sherlock has asked them repeatedly to stop but they just ignore him. He’s retaliated by insisting the window be kept open at all times but as Edward and he are closest to the window this affects them more than the perpetrators. 

The sounds especially make his throat contract in a spasm of retching until he can feel his stomach heave. Several times he has to hurry to the toilet stalls to empty his stomach until nothing but green bile rises from his stomach. It’s imperative these desperate dashes should be executed in the most dignified manner, he refuses to give the atrocious pair the satisfaction of knowing they’ve found the perfect means to rile him to no end.

Sherlock endures the torment for one week, reasoning once the novelty has worn off they’re bound to become bored and find some other obnoxious occupation but it appears he’s overrated their mental ability. The time has come for stronger measures.

Mr Robinson looks rather shocked when Sherlock announces he wants to start studying Bartók’s _Sonata for Solo Violin_.

“I do hope you hadn’t got that piece in mind for the summer concert, Sherlock,” he starts. “I don’t think our public would enjoy it. I’d hoped you’d choose Bach. Besides, the finger settings. I’m no violinist, of course, but aren’t your hands too small yet?”

Sherlock smiles up at his teacher. “Oh, I have already decided on Bach’s first sonata for the concert. The Bartók will be a real challenge for me, but I’m convinced I’ll be able to master it, don’t you think?”

Mr Robinson laughs. “Oh, I do agree with you it will be a challenge and I’m certain you can play it. My objection would be you’re too young to understand the piece. Though that may be my own trepidation for to be honest I’ve always considered the piece a trial for the public as much as the performer. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” He puts his finger in front of his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “I suppose you discussed this with Mr Mancini.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock lies. “He’s overjoyed. But of course…” His lets his voice falter.

“Yes?”

“With such a difficult piece I will have to study in my dorm room as well.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll speak to Mrs Norton about it. She’s got quite a soft spot for you so I’m convinced she’ll allow you to study in your room.”

A music stand with the sheet music is set up beside Sherlock’s bed the next day. Sherlock starts with the _fugue_ of Bach’s sonata, he loves getting lost in the notes’ fanciful flight. Edward is lying on his bed reading a book but closes it to listen, rearranging himself on his side and supporting his head with his arm, clearly enjoying the music almost as much as Sherlock. 

Behind them a loud belch booms through the room. Sherlock can feel his throat muscles contract in reflex. Yet he manages to change one sheet of music for another and to produce one of the most perfect _collé_ sounds he’s ever been able to cajole out of his violin. Edward sits up abruptly and brings his hands up to his ears.

Behind them Warburton explodes: “Fuck you, Holmes! What are you doing?”

Sherlock lowers the violin and the bow and turns to smile sweetly and explain: “I’m studying.”

“You should do that with Mr Robinson in the music room.”

“Yes, but you see, this piece I’ve chosen is very difficult. I’ll have to study a lot. So I was given permission to study here as well.”

“No you aren’t, you tosser. I’ll go tell Mrs Norton.”

Warburton bounces of his bed and strides out of the room. Sherlock turns and shifts the violin into place beneath his chin to prod more violent screeches out of the instrument with his bow.

Five minutes later Warburton storms back into the room.

“Shit,” he announces. “He’s allowed to practice in here,” he explains to Pleasance.

“She must have gone totally bonkers,” Pleasance says before burping loudly.

Sherlock responds immediately by a sharp downward flow of the bow.

“Rats! Stop that, Holmes!”

Next to him Edward is starting to look uncomfortable but Sherlock plays on, his eyes flying over the notes, he’s already looking forward to… Oh, that actually hurt on the ear… Bad turn, Sherlock.

The window is a perfect mirror, reflecting Warburton’s and Pleasance’s increased agitation flawlessly. Sherlock can’t help but smirk while he plods on. The piece sends him back to the first year when he was learning to master his instrument, Mycroft’s pained looks as his clumsy hands coaxed the sounds of a shrieking tortured cat out of the violin. What he’s doing now is worse, far worse as is testified by Edward’s pained look and Warburton’s and Pleasance’s fury. 

“Goddamn you, you moron! Will you stop it?” Pleasance shouts.

Sherlock spins round, violin under his chin.

“Your racket disturbs my concentration,” he informs his dorm mate coldly and whirls back to put the bow to the violin again. Edward is pleading silently with him to stop but by now Sherlock is enjoying himself too much to consider the idea. He loves both the intellectual and physical test the sonata confronts him with, requiring his fingers to attain impossible positions on the strings, while his eyes jump over the staves to prepare himself mentally for the next abrupt chord. The resulting inadvertent dissonant almost makes him laugh out loud with joy. How marvellous to have to conquer his violin again before even having to wonder what his approach to the music should be.

“Will you please, please, _please_ stop it,” Warburton groans after ten minutes. “Practice something else?”

Another _collé_ to mark he’s heard before Sherlock pivots on his heels with slow deliberateness.

“What will you do to make me stop?” he enquires.

“Kick you in your balls if you won’t,” Pleasance spits but Warburton shoots him a warning look. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. During the last year he’s gained an inch on Pleasance and one and a half on Warburton and Mr Wilberforce’s fencing lessons have further sharpened his reflexes. The combined forces of Warburton and Pleasance won’t be enough to overpower him.

“What will make you stop?” Warburton asks.

“Just think, Warburton,” Sherlock replies.

He swivels around again and resumes playing.

***

He only plays the Bartók at night, after having closed both doors to the hallway. The sonata is as big an encounter for him today as it was when he was an eleven-year-old. All his own doing. He can’t blame Mycroft for the numbness in his fingertips. Not directly, that is. For in the end, obviously, Mycroft is liable for everything that happened to Sherlock, all the sadness and all the badness, and everything else besides. 

***

Up on the platform, Mycroft stands and Sherlock is clapping, clapping until his arms and hands ache. Mycroft beams into the hall, his eyes searching for Sherlock and Nanny and Mummy and Sherlock throws him a small wave and sees Mycroft’s eyes light up with recognition. Next to Mycroft, the Headmaster keeps droning on and on about Mycroft’s many accomplishments and the great expectations he’s raised, referencing to Daddy – the beloved Government official whose passing is still deeply mourned by any true Briton – by a circuitous route to end up at the profound belief much will be heard of Mycroft in the future. 

Finally, Mycroft is allowed to walk off the podium, his departure indicating the ceremony has ended and Mycroft’s secondary education with it. After the summer he will start attending University – he will go to Daddy’s college, Christ Church, to study law and philosophy. 

Everyone has risen and is mingling about. Sherlock holds onto Nanny’s hand, Mummy clutching Nanny’s other arm with a fixed smile on her face. She murmurs vague greetings to the other parents, inclining her head with demure grace every now and then. Finally, Mycroft shows up in front of them, the Headmaster at his side. 

“May I introduce my brother to you?” Mycroft addresses the man. “He’s anxious to thank you for all the times you’ve allowed me to go visit him and not pay attention to my studies as I should have. Sherlock?”

Sherlock proffers his hand and finds his fingers clasped by a clammy grip. He forces himself to smile at the man and speak clearly. “Thank you very much for being so lenient for my sake.”

“Not at all, not at all. Indeed. I confess I look forward to you staying with us after all Mycroft has told me about you. You will be such an addition to both our drama and music performances.”

“Yes, very important those,” Mycroft concedes. “Nevertheless I do hope he will astonish you even more with his Latin and mathematics. Those are more useful accomplishments for the career we will both be pursuing.”

“I’m going to be a famous violinist,” Sherlock says.

“No, you won’t,” Mycroft corrects him in a tight voice. Sherlock opens his mouth but Mycroft’s glare makes him clamp it shut again. The Headmaster swivels his amused gaze between the two of them.

“Faber est suae quisque fortunae, Mycroft,” he appeases. “Indeed. I do remember your father was a very convincing Lady Macbeth in his last performance in this school. Being such an accomplished actor must have helped him greatly whenever he had to deal with some unpleasantness later on, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, excited, “did Daddy like acting? I never knew.” He eyes the Headmaster more attentively now. The man is older than _his_ Headmaster. He has brushed his trousers for the ceremony, but the hairs of an angora cat are still clinging to the turn-ups. After dressing himself, he enjoyed a last cup of tea and managed to spill some on his tie. No doubt because he was pulling on his cigarette at the same time, the habit is in clear evidence both by the stains on the nails of his left hand, used to hold the cigarette rather than the right hand, as by the smell beneath his aftershave. The scent reminds Sherlock of Mr Talbot for a moment. 

The Headmaster smiles down on him. “Indeed.” Sherlock presumes this must be the Headmaster’s favourite word. “Of course, it is a long time ago. I had just entered the staff as a junior teacher. Yet, your father’s performance was such... I can see still him up on the stage goading Macbeth on to yet another murder. He was frightening to look at, most impressive. Many boys approach the role with lots of handwringing and shouting, which can be very effective. But your father exuded a certain quiet menace and rage…” the Headmaster breaks off and his gaze wanders over the hall, searching for the words, before coming back to their little group, gliding over Nanny first, then Mummy. Suddenly his face becomes very red, perspiration beading at his temples, “…which was a far more efficient approach to inspire terror in our hearts,” he ends.

Sherlock bobs his head up and down repeatedly; wishing for his enthusiasm to guide the Headmaster into disclosing more but the man fingers the lapel of his jacket for a moment and holds out his hand to Mummy next. “Those are two very fine boys you’ve raised, Mrs Holmes. I congratulate you. You can’t be but very proud,” he tells her. “I’ll speak to you later Mycroft. Sherlock.” He inclines his head towards all of them, pivots on his heels and walks away rather fast.

“Well,” Nanny starts but Mycroft interrupts her hastily.

“I suggest we go and find us some tea and then we must leave and drop off Sherlock at school.”

“No,” Mummy decrees. “No. I don’t want to stay.” Her eyes are still following the Headmaster who’s talking to someone at the other hand of the hall now. “Of course that man knew him before I did,” she continues. “I never realised that till just now. I don’t like him. I don’t like people that knew him before I did. I’m glad you’re leaving here, Mycroft.”

“Mummy—”

“Oh, what is it? Don’t look at me like that, Mycroft.”

Nanny lays a hand on Mummy’s arm. “Valerie, my dear, let’s not do this. We’ll go and find that tea, won’t we?”

“I’d rather not. I prefer to go.” Mummy is still talking quietly but Nanny throws Mycroft an anguished look nevertheless.

Mycroft rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. We’ll leave.”  
For a moment he rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I would have liked to show you around a bit, Sherlock. The school will be your battlefield from next year on. I’ll know you’ll do me proud. Sadly, the extended tour will have to wait a little longer.”

“It’s fine, Mycroft.”

Honestly, what is Mycroft making such a fuss about? It’s just another school, isn’t it? The thought Daddy went to this same school once doesn’t change Sherlock’s expectation of more years of boredom to live through somehow, either locked up in a classroom or lounging on a football or hockey field. Daddy loathed the school and Sherlock already knows he will hate it just as much, hate every minute of it.

***

“Christ, Mycroft. Your family must be filthy rich.”

Mycroft laughs, holding onto his friend’s upper arm. “Well, if you say so, it must be true.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen my place. It’s a doll’s house compared to this pile of bricks. And the grounds. Jesus, that bloody drive kept twisting and turning once we’d passed the gates.”

The voice of Mycroft’s friend, Michael, rings loudly through the hall. Upstairs, from behind the parapet, Sherlock looks down upon the two figures huddled closely together. Mycroft’s friend will stay with them for two weeks. Last night Mycroft made Sherlock promise for the umpteenth time there would be no eavesdropping and no blurting of construed facts about Michael. Inwardly Sherlock was seething while assuring Mycroft he would behave properly and only speak when addressed directly. Why should he be the one to be singled out for his behaviour? How does Mycroft think he’s going to ensure Mummy won’t be throwing a tantrum right in front of Michael?

“Oh, hello. You must be Michael. Welcome.”

As if on cue Mummy appears in the hall with an outstretched hand and a fixated smile plastered onto her face. The boy accepts her hand. 

“Thank you for having me, Mrs Holmes.”

“Please. I’m delighted Mycroft has invited you. Tea will be served on the terrace in a quarter of an hour. You must come and admire the view, Michael. It’s most pleasant.”

The three of them disappear into the blue morning room, Mummy leading the way. Sherlock waits until he’s sure they must have stepped onto the terrace before stealing to the servant’s staircase. Behind the door to the kitchen, he waits until Cook’s broad back is bending over the Aga before he flits behind her to the backdoor and starts a run for his tree house.

***

“Sherlock. Where have you been all day? Michael, this is my little brother, Sherlock.”

Sherlock walks up to the boy and offers his hand.

“Hello Sherlock.” The boy’s hand is smaller than Mycroft’s but warmer. Sherlock would like to wipe his hand on his trousers after the boy has let go of it but he refrains from doing so as this would be impolite. 

“Hello,” he mumbles. “Hello Mycroft, hello Mummy.”

His mother says nothing but picks up her napkin and flaps it open with a languid flick of her wrist. Sherlock seats himself on his chair and shoots her a furtive look. Her face is tranquil, a vague expression of amusement wavering on her lips.

“We’re an informal household, Michael,” she confides. “Hopefully you won’t mind dishing up yourself.”

“Not at all, Mrs Holmes,” the boy answers her. A big splash of tomato soup falls from the ladle as he wields it from the tureen to his plate. Sherlock winces but both Mummy and Mycroft pretend not to notice the bright red stain soiling the pristine white damask of the tablecloth.

“Be so good as to dish up for your little brother, Mycroft,” is all Mummy says. As if Sherlock isn’t perfectly capable of serving out for himself without dirtying the table linen.

The boy and Mycroft sit discussing what they expect of University life. Michael informs them he’s going to read history at Balliol. Mummy is all ears and plays the attentive host.

After Cook has put the vegetables on the table Sherlock tunes them all out for the remainder of the meal. Every now and then he slants a foul gaze at Mycroft’s guest who’s absorbing all his attention. Thanks to this windbag he will have to endure another forty-one never-ending meals like these. How can Mycroft wish to be a friend to such an uninteresting person? And if he must, whatever made him decide to invite the insipid bore here?

***

“Ta. I’m off.”

John stands in the doorway, putting on his coat. Sherlock looks up from the book he’s reading. He stares.

John stares back. Expectantly at first, waiting for Sherlock’s affirmation of his leave-taking, but after five seconds of silence a frown twitches above his nose.

“What?” he asks.

Sherlock’s eyes flit over the ensemble John is wearing. A bland ecru shirt with a vague tartan pattern in light greys and browns on top of a pair of jeans. The belt will do but the shoes John has put on are a lighter brown than the belt. Inwardly Sherlock sighs at yet another demonstration of John’s total lack of dress sense. Does he honestly not see the shirt disperses all his assets? The dye reduces the different shades of his hair to the uniform unattractive colour of used dishwater and dilutes the strong blue of his eyes, drawing all vivacity from his face besides. The jeans are a new pair, a loose cut, which has the effect of visually shortening John’s height, which was none too imposing to begin with. The shop assistant who did not dissuade John from buying the pair ought to be sacked on the spot.

And the hapless doctor has decided upon this outfit for his first official date with the woman he’s been flirting with by text for the past week. What was he wearing on the pub night with Lestrade? Oh yes, the red shirt and black jeans. A more fortunate choice by far. This getup on the other hand will only have her dismiss him as a fruitless endeavour the moment she sets eyes on him. Unless she’s one of those women that are on the lookout constantly for a man they can build up to their own image from scratch. Either that or she’s desperate enough to go after him, atrocious garb and all. Sherlock shudders.

“Nothing,” he waives. “Goodbye, John.”

“No.” John’s voice has risen and he takes a step into the room. “There’s something you want to tell me. What is it?”

Inwardly Sherlock groans. The last thing he wishes for is to hurt John by commenting on his tasteless apparel. Besides, if he allows John to leave the flat in his current attire, the date will definitely go pear-shaped from the beginning. The danger of John heading on a trail that will lead him away from 221B and Sherlock will have been thwarted, and Sherlock’s purposes served to a tee, by John’s own doing. – until the next date.

On the other hand, the thought of John being dismissed because of his deficiency in fashion sense pains Sherlock. The anticipation of the doctor’s downcast face at breakfast tomorrow morning puts his heart in his mouth. They’re friends and friends take care of each other. Warning John about the disaster zone he will be entering if he hits the streets in the clobber he’s slipped into would be the decent thing to do.

“It’s your clothes,” spits Sherlock. “I thought you went on these dates in the hope of getting out of your clothes. With the present outfit I’d rate your chances of having her open the top button of your shirt – let alone the buttons on any other article of clothing – at about nil.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, would you mind… And my clothes? What do you mean? I bought these jeans especially. The shop assistant told me they looked good on me.”

“Wherever did you go, John? To a store where all the personnel is visually handicapped? The man must have hid his white cane before he told you so. They don’t suit you, you should always wear more tight-fitting ones, vertically challenged as you are. The shirt is a write-off as well. The colour drains you. Did you actually pay attention during all those hours you wasted on that Connie Prince show together with Mrs Hudson?”

John stands open-mouthed, gaping like a fish. His expression doesn’t add to the attractiveness of the overall picture so Sherlock ends his instruction with a kind: “I’m only trying to help.”

John’s mouth snaps shut as suddenly as it had fallen open.

“Fine,” he grits. “Fine. Tell me then, Yves Saint Laurent, what should I be wearing?”

Sherlock sighs. “Your total ignorance regarding everything to do with presenting yourself favourably is further illustrated by that remark. Yves Saint Laurent was not interested in dressing men. You might have compared me to Hedi Slimane or Dries van Noten, though I must confess I didn’t like his clothes very much.”

“I didn’t know you were so fashion-conscious. Aren’t clothes just part of the transport?”

“Obviously. However, four years ago I was asked to deal with a rather nasty case of bribery. The victim was a bigwig in one of Paris’ leading fashion houses. The whole affair turned out to be tedious in the extreme, those couturiers are nothing but overblown narcissists, but it paid rather well and I could use the money. I had to blend in with the surroundings so I could move about freely to conduct my investigations and I proposed to disguise myself as a model. In fact, that proved to be one of my better ideas.” He works hard at keeping the smug self-congratulation out of his voice.

Now John’s eyes have doubled in size. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Well, you have the looks, I suppose.”

“Quite. I was the talk of the season. Still, I was glad to return home for I’ve never had to endure such a lot of horrendous vacuous chitchat from self-absorbed simpletons before or after. Even Anderson’s conversation is the epitome of wit compared to the colloquies I was forced to eavesdrop upon during that assignment.”

“And no one is quite as good at eavesdropping as you are,” John says. Is there a hint of bitterness in his tone?

Sherlock smirks. “Naturally. I perfected the art at a young age. However, we’re digressing. I suggest you change into that dark-blue and ecru checked shirt you were wearing two weeks ago. Any pair of jeans will do except for this one, you should chuck them in the bin straightaway. The shoes are tolerable but I happen to have noticed you do actually own a belt in the same shade, and it has a less prominent buckle, which looks better on you, wear that one. Don’t go for your black coat but that new brown one.”

“Anything else?”

“Personally I would have chosen another eau de cologne to douse you with but you’ll just have to rely on her nose not working too well. Which is highly likely seeing as to the great number of people that have succumbed to the flu recently. You’re meeting her in half an hour so you don’t have any time left for a shower. I’ll be happy to advise you next time on the right scent to wear.” He nods encouragingly.

John flexes his hands a few times, balling them up into fists and relaxing his fingers again.

“Thank you,” he manages before pivoting and trudging back upstairs.

Seven minutes later he’s back for a general inspection.

“Perfect,” Sherlock declares. John does indeed look like the good, dependable soldier-doctor that he is, and rather handsome as well. “She’ll be dutifully impressed.”

His praise lightens up his friend’s features.

“I’ll be off then.”

“Yes. Enjoy yourself, John.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. Don’t text me unless it’s really important.”

“Have I ever texted you for a trivial reason?”

“I’m not entering in that discussion now. Ta.”

“Goodbye.”

The door to the flat falls shut and John’s footsteps recede as he descends the stairs. Sherlock scoots out of his chair and lifts the curtain to watch the dapper figure disappear down the street in the direction of the Tube station. He’ll keep his promise and won’t text. All he can do is hope the woman will prove herself to be another idiot; unable to appreciate the fact she struck gold when John’s eye fell on her. 

***

The rain splatters on the roof of his tree house. A gentle lulling tap tap tap in the background that emphasises he’s ensconced cosily with his introduction to neurotransmission and the Rubik’s cube John presented him with on his last birthday. It’s taken Cook a quarter of an hour to scramble the cube and Sherlock thirty seconds to solve the puzzle. He’s tried rearranging it with his eyes closed but found he remembered all the moves he’d made so he’s laid the cube aside and now sits reading his book.

As he looks up some time later he notices the rain has ceased. The water drops falling onto the roof drip down from the big branches towering over the hut. The brush of the sunrays peeking out from behind the clouds to caress the grass transforms the water clinging to the stalks into a myriad of tiny diamonds sparkling and glittering in brief abundance before vaporising into a thin veil that dissolves into nothingness.

On his belly, with his head resting on his folded hands, Sherlock lies observing the sun’s looting of the jewel hoard when he hears voices in the distance. He recognises them to be Mycroft’s and Michael’s and shifts back into the hut. 

“God, My, I see now what you meant when you said you are living in a warped paradise. Has your mother always been like this? And your brother, what an eerie waif, he almost frightens me. I’ve never before met someone with such an intense gaze…”

Mycroft remains silent.

“…except for you that is,” Michael ends. “But then you… I haven’t said anything wrong have I?”

“No. What makes you think so? You’ve shared your impressions of the members of my family with me. I find those very useful.”

“I’ve hurt you.” Michael grinds to a halt almost straight in front of the tree house. He grasps Mycroft’s hand and clenches it ardently. “Please, My. I didn’t mean to, I… I didn’t think… please…”

The boy brings his other hand up to Mycroft’s face. “Forgive me,” he whispers and puckers his lips and pushes them against Mycroft’s. Mycroft stands very still for a moment. Then he raises his hands and puts them on Michael’s shoulders to shove him away. 

“No,” he says in a rough voice. “Not here. Sherlock might be around somewhere. I don’t want him to see us. He’s too young and vulnerable. Only in my room, I told you.”

“Christ, yes,” Michael pouts. “You told me but the place is deserted and we’re at least a quarter of a mile from the house.” He starts shouting and flailing with his arms. “Hey, is there anyone around here? If you are, why don’t you come forward and let us see you?”

High above him Sherlock shrinks back even further into the house.

“See?” Michael states triumphantly. “There’s no one.”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “Thank you for your demonstration which proved exactly nothing. Really, Michael.” The smile in his voice is unmistakeable, though.

“It proved to me you’d rather go to your room than swimming.”

“Did it?”

“Yes, it did. Come on!”

Michael grasps Mycroft’s hand and starts pulling him back in the direction of the house. Mycroft laughs, a genuinely happy sound. Sherlock can’t remember the last time Mycroft’s laughter was so delighted and light-hearted. 

Is this what Michael gives him then? A chance to be free of worry for a few hours, to be absolved from the eternal anguish about Mummy, about the circumstances surrounding Daddy’s death, about Sherlock? 

Slowly Sherlock descends from the tree. His aversion of the boy has increased with his inadvertent overhearing of the conversation. Now he wishes even more for the boy to go away and never come back so he can have Mycroft to himself again.

***

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“How did it go?” Sherlock asks while pouring himself some tea. Not that he needs to ask. John’s slumped figure and subdued answering of his greeting have already informed him the date was a disaster. In order not to hurt his flatmate any further Sherlock does his utmost to plaster a blank look of enquiry to his face. He’s ninety-nine per cent sure he succeeds. 

“Not too well,” John mumbles.

“Oh.” He aims for non-committal.

A deep sigh from the other side of the table. Sherlock reaches for a slice of toast.

“Look here. Would you mind if we don’t talk about this? It was only a first date. She’s not the only woman in the world.”

“Definitely not, John. More fish in the sea and all that.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“What? I thought that was the correct expression to use.”

“Not now.”

“Oh.”

He takes a bite of his toast. Should he say something else? But what? Mrs Hudson would know. Or Molly. Though it’s more probable Molly’s friends would know what to tell her in circumstances similar to these. If she has friends. She has a cat. Maybe he should buy John a cat. His phone buzzes with a text alert and he pulls it out of the pocket of his dressing gown. It’s from Lestrade asking his assistance with a homicide on Hampstead Heath.

“What is it?” John asks.

Sherlock looks up and grins at him. “I believe we have a date, John.”

***


	2. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it’s the same, just the same. Mycroft and Michael have turned into animals, just like Mummy and Daddy after Mummy broke the tortoiseshell mirror. They’ve morphed into a two-backed beast and Sherlock feels the bile of revulsion rise in his throat as he hears Mycroft’s heavy breathing.

“Hello Freak. Shouldn’t be surprised to have you turn up here.”

“Ah Sally, likewise I suppose. Always working, aren’t you, the ever diligent sergeant? Once again the displeasure upon our encounter is entirely mutual so I suggest we turn it into a brief one. Please have the courtesy to tell Lestrade I’m here, would you?” Sherlock answers her. 

Donovan huffs in exasperation and gestures with her thumb over her shoulder.

“You’ll find him down there near the hedgerow. It’s a pretty disgusting sight, the work of an obvious psychopath. Must be family…”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Sally. Your secret is safe with me though. Come on, John.” 

Together they duck beneath the tape and set off across the field. Sherlock scans the surroundings but nothing strikes him out of the ordinary. To their right, people are walking their dogs. One of them laughs as two dogs start barking at each other. A sparrow hawk hovers across the field on their left. The sounds of London float up at them, muted by the distance and the trees that dot the Heath.

Overhead the sky is a murky grey with dark specks, resembling the dishwater in the sink after one of John’s occasional desperate attempts to modify their kitchen into an area that wouldn’t be fenced off immediately by the appropriate authorities as a risk to the health of the general public. 

“Why is she always so aggressive?” John muses. “You help them, you’re on their side. Without you they wouldn’t solve so many cases…”

“Really, John, the answer is perfectly obvious. She’s jealous of me.”

John’s laughter conveys his incredulity. “Jealous? What should she be jealous of? Oh, unless…” A snarky grin fleets over his face as he gazes up at Sherlock. “You tease, that’s why you’re always so dismissive of Anderson. Sally must be eating her heart out.”

“For god’s sake, shut up, John. Try employing your brain with some real thinking for a change instead of wasting it in whipping up revolting scenes of debauchery. I meant she’s jealous of the working relationship Lestrade and I have devised between us.” 

He rolls his eyes at John’s disbelieving snort. “It’s not that difficult to comprehend. Even you should have been able to figure this out. Sally Donovan is an extremely ambitious young woman originating from Tower Hamlets. Her father was unemployed most of his life. Her mother could barely read and write and yet she was the one that had to fend for Sally and her brothers and sisters. Sally is the eldest of seven and the only one who has managed to get herself a career of sorts. So far her sisters have mostly shown themselves to be as good at breeding as her parents were. A large part of her salary check goes to their upkeep, can you imagine that?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Oh yes, Miss Sally Donovan has fought long and hard to work herself up. As she joined the yard she apprehended early on that Lestrade was the man she ought to model herself after. He’s decent, meticulous, clever, the eminent example of everything a police officer should be, the cream of the crop. She’s been working over and above the call of duty to get in his good books. Yet here is this…” Sherlock wrinkles his nose in an expression of intense antipathy, causing John to chortle, “… _person_ with his posh voice that’s positively dripping public school and Oxbridge at you and the privileges that come to one who’s born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Never mind the silver was a little tarnished. That’s of no interest to Sally Donovan. All she notices are the advantages she didn’t have while this _odious_ individual enjoyed them and how he dares to step between her and her precious DI and gain the man’s ear and his trust?”

The actual crime scene has come out by now. Lestrade is standing to the side with a furrowed brow, hand cupping his chin. He’s talking to a figure in a blue Tyvek suit. Anderson! Busy messing up the area no doubt, contaminating all the evidence. Sherlock breaks into a run.

“Lestrade,” he shouts. “What’s Anderson doing there, for god’s sake? Tell that moron to make himself scarce before he does any more damage to my crime scene!”

***

“Good afternoon, Mrs Holmes.”

“Oh, hello Michael.”

“Do you mind if I sit down here?”

“Oh no, please do, by all means. Here, I’ll give you some space. Where’s Mycroft?”

“He had to make some telephone calls so he sent me off to amuse myself for a few hours. I’ve been taking a tour of the park. These are fine grounds you’ve got here. My elder sister studies landscape design and she was quite envious when she heard of my invitation. She will be even more jealous after she’ll have had to listen to all my praise.”

Mummy laughs. “Consider her invited to accompany you on your next visit, Michael, should you wish to convey the message to her. No doubt Mycroft has informed you the park was created by ‘Capability’ Brown himself.”

“He did indeed. However, that’s something I would have found out for myself. His signature is evident all through the park. I’m convinced my sister would be impressed the most by the gardens around the house. They blend in perfectly with the general décor despite being so thoroughly modern.”

“Yes, my husband had this garden we’re sitting in now, the blue garden, created especially for me upon our marriage. The rose garden was his present at our fifth wedding anniversary. Every rose you see there he chose himself, ensuring the garden would be in bloom from early May to October. These gardens were the most beautiful presents I ever received. He was the best of husbands and the best of men.”

“And he must have employed the best garden architect money could buy, if you don’t mind my being so blunt, Mrs Holmes. In a relatively small space the man has created a wonderfully sunny garden that takes advantage of its position regarding the house. The planting scheme ensures one feels close and secure, as if one was in a comfortable room and yet it is open to the parkland.”

“Yes, yes, that’s well stated, Michael. Remarkable observations for one as young as you are. I wish Mycroft enjoyed the grounds more. They’re so lovely. I remember the first time Sherlock took me down here to show me around. The house was nearly in ruins then, but I fell in love with the park straightaway. It was always properly looked after by the father of our present gardener. A kind of family pride, his forebears had been serving Sherlock’s family for decades or maybe even longer. Bound to this part of the earth like serfs.”

Mummy titters and puts her hand on Michael’s. From his vantage point behind the high clumps of delphiniums, Sherlock lifts his gaze towards the windows of Daddy’s study. Mycroft is sitting behind Daddy’s desk with the receiver against his ear, listening intently to what whoever is on the other side of the line is telling him.

“I must disappoint you with the information our gardener was the grand architect of these surroundings you’re admiring so much. He’s a repellent creature, very secretive, I can’t stand the sight of him, never could. Still, I have to admit he knows his job and loves the estate almost as much as Sherlock did and as I do. You should see him swaggering about, like _he_ is the possessor of the estate. Oh, it’s just… Mycroft insists we should keep employing him.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him. He seems like a funny old man to me.”

“Oh, he’s positively repugnant. I _hate_ the fact that’s he’s still living here. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him…”

Mummy’s voice has risen, the tone bordering on that dangerous cusp between the last remnants of sanity and the grand leap into screeching madness. In his spot Sherlock stands frozen with indecision. Mummy must be stopped. Mycroft would be so unhappy if she were to stage one of her dramatic outbursts of lunacy right in front of his friend. What is Sherlock to do? Jump forward from behind the flowers to reason with her and start dragging her away? As if she would allow him to do so? For such a frail woman she’s surprisingly strong. Who knows how Mummy may react to his sudden emergence? She might be jolted back to reality but it’s equally likely she might perceive him to be Daddy and fall to her knees and start caressing him in front of Michael.

Desperate, Sherlock flicks up his eyes once more towards the window behind which Mycroft is seated. Fully intent on his conversation his brother is oblivious to the drama that might erupt any minute now. Swivelling his gaze back to the bench Sherlock sees Michael has shifted, away from Mummy who’s sitting with her hands at her throat. All colour has drained from her face. “Oh god,” she croaks. “Oh god, have mercy on me…”

Sherlock bends and scoops up a hand of gravelly earth. With all his might he throws it in the direction of the window. Several small clumps hit the glass. Mycroft’s head shoots up to throw Sherlock a disgruntled look. Gesticulating wildly, Sherlock points in the direction of the bench. Mycroft redirects his gaze, his eyes widen and he starts talking hurriedly into the receiver before plunking it down and rushing out of the room.

“Mrs Holmes,” Michael wavers. Sherlock decides now is a good time to slink away from the scene. He tiptoes towards the house and is just disappearing around the corner when he hears Mycroft’s anxious voice approaching: “Mummy, Mummy! Are you all right?”

***

“Look, Sherlock. See how busy they are? We’ll have a great harvest this autumn.”

“Yes, John.”

“Oh. Look at that one, like a little fuzzy ball of gold. Go on my lovely, deliver your load and fly off to collect some more. That’s right. And here’s another. Go ahead, you pretty. You’re doing fine, just fine.”

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Why does my mother hate you so?”

“Jes… Sherlock! What?”

“You heard me perfectly well, John. Moreover, you were about to curse, which means you are aware of the fact. You won’t shock me if you utter profanities in my presence, John. I know three hundred and forty-six bad words now, ranging from asshole to whore. In school I’m surrounded by little else all day.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! That’s something terrible. You’re too young to hear such words. I hope you don’t know what they mean.”

“You say asshole when you want to indicate you consider someone a dumb, crude person and whore is used to refer to someone who will do anything you ask him to. However, that’s beside the point, John. We weren’t discussing foul language. Don’t try to change the subject.”

John draws his hand over his face. “Christ,” he swears. “Jesus f… Christ! I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s… well… I’m a bit shocked.”

“Obviously. However, there’s no reason you should be. We both understand this is what Daddy desired to shield me from. Now, why does my mother hate you?”

John walks away from the apiary in the direction of the orchard. Sherlock trails hot on his heels, tugging at John’s sweater.

“Why, John?”

John falls down into a wicker chair beneath an apple tree. 

“I know why she hates me, Sherlock. And if you knew the reason I guess you would understand it a little better. Even though I’ve never done anything to hurt her. I haven’t, I swear. But you may know lots of swear words, Sherlock, still I’m not going to tell you why your mother dislikes me so much.”

“You must!”

John laughs. “Must I, now? I don’t think so. I wasn’t hired to explain to young snoops what they see but are yet too small to understand.”

“It’s not fair, John.”

“What’s fairness got to do with it? Life isn’t fair. You’d better get used to it being unfair. Happy to have been of help. Come here.”

John tugs at Sherlock’s hand and pulls him onto his knee. Sherlock perches there a little awkwardly, he really is too big now to be sitting on anyone’s knee. 

“Look,” John says. “Some things are just the way they are. I know you’re always searching for explanations but as you grow up you’ll find not everything can be explained away no matter how deep you dig. And children should accept that they can’t know everything.”

Holding Sherlock’s fingers, John strokes Sherlock’s back with a comforting brush of his broad palm. 

“I’ll make you a promise,” he continues. “When you turn eighteen and you’re still interested in what happened between your mother and your old gardener you may come and I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything. But until that time I won’t say a word, Sherlock. How’s that for a deal?”

“It will be ages before I turn eighteen. I’m only eleven now, that’s seven years before you’ll tell me.”

“Once you’re my age you’ll think differently, Sherlock. What’s seven years in a man’s lifetime? A short moment of happiness that’s past all too soon…” John’s voice trails off; his hand has fallen still. Sherlock looks up at him but John doesn’t return his gaze.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“ _I_ like you, John. I like you very much.”

John smiles. “I know, Sherlock. I like you too.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

John’s smile grows even wider, showing his slightly crooked, strong teeth.

“It is, Sherlock. It is.” He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers.

“Shall we go and visit Daddy’s grave tomorrow morning, John?”

“Yes Sherlock, let’s. I’d love that.”

***

“Holy shit, Mycroft. No disrespect intended, she’s your mother and she seems nice enough normally, but… How can you stand it? I… I… well you know I’m mad about you but now I admire you, yes… yes I admire you for living like this.”

Michael is pacing up and down in front of Mycroft who’s seated with his back against a big beech tree. Sherlock has crouched inside a clump of rhododendrons to listen in on their conversation. With a cursory flick of his wrist Mycroft dismisses Michael’s anguished prattle.

“You would do the same if you were in my place.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t be able to. For god’s sake, Mycroft. Please, please, I apologise for being direct. I apologise for what I’m about to say but oh… Oh Mycroft, I don’t want to hurt you, please, but she’s stark raving mad! Or maybe not raving – does she rave? – but she just… oozes this quiet anger against the world and… and… she might explode any minute. Mycroft, goddamn… she’s dangerous. I… please, you probably don’t want to hear this but you should have her locked away. Oh, forgive me… but…”

“I’d prefer to end this exchange. Please, you’re not telling me anything I’m not aware of and both the subject and your desire to discuss it pain me.”

These words send Michael over to Mycroft and have him fall on his knees and reach for Mycroft’s hands.

“Oh, I knew it, I knew it. I’m so sorry, please… Oh, for all the bloody… goddamn, I don’t want to hurt you Mycroft. Mycroft! Don’t you understand it’s you I’m worried about…”

“I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, Michael. Apart from looking after my little brother and… yes… I can handle my mother as well. I’ve been doing little else for years now. Mummy was already ill when my father was still alive. He didn’t want to hospitalise her against her wishes. She… she went to an institution of her own volition once, mainly to please him I believe – they never clarified.” 

Mycroft laughs and in his hiding place Sherlock cringes at the bitter despondency of the sound. “Sometimes I think the people in the institution ended up more confused by her little foray into psychiatry than Mummy. She’s a very strong-headed woman. Our general practitioner is no help at all. She winds him around her little finger. However, he’ll keep mum and the situation being what it is you’ll agree with me that’s quite an asset in the family physician.”

“Oh Mycroft…”

“No,” Mycroft interrupts Michael brusquely. “Stop it. No!” he protests in a louder tone as Michael opens his mouth to start speaking again. “I’m not interested in your commiseration. Don’t have me decide I made a mistake when I invited you. You’re not here to lecture me on the right method to deal with my mother’s lack of mental equilibrium.”

Michael is silent, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “No,” he admits. From beneath his eyelashes he glances up at Mycroft.

“Come here,” Mycroft says in a rough tone. 

“Are you sure? You said… your brother…”

“Please, Michael.”

“Oh god… oh Mycroft…”

Yanking at Michael’s hands, Mycroft pulls him closer, into his lap, and they lock their mouths like Mummy and Daddy did all those years ago. Fascinated, Sherlock watches as Michael wrings his hands loose and brings them up to clasp Mycroft’s head while Mycroft splays his fingers against Michael’s back and moves them up and down in a frantic search for the closest possible contact.

Oh, it’s the same, just the same. Mycroft and Michael have turned into animals, just like Mummy and Daddy after Mummy broke the tortoiseshell mirror. They’ve morphed into a two-backed beast and Sherlock feels the bile of revulsion rise in his throat as he hears Mycroft’s heavy breathing.

Michael gasps: “Mycroft… oh Christ…” and he tugs at Mycroft’s shirt while Mycroft lets his head fall back against the tree. 

Suddenly the whining throttle of a chainsaw tears apart the afternoon’s tranquillity. At the noise Mycroft jolts up, nearly unsettling Michael from his lap.

“Our gardener,” Mycroft utters. “How unpleasant.”

“Never mind,” Michael soothes him. “He can’t be near. He won’t have seen us, and even if he would have, it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s just your gardener.”

“Yes, but… I’m sorry Michael but the moment has been spoiled for me. Let’s go up to my room, shall we?”

Michael laughs. “It seems a pity for the grass here is so soft and you look so wonderful with the sunlight dappling your hair. But all right, on one condition…”

“And that is?” Mycroft enquires with raised eyebrows.

“You’ll have to come all over me,” Michael breathes.

“Oh… oh…” Mycroft stutters, trailing his hand over Michael’s chest. “Oh, of course, if you want to, of course I will. Come on then.”

Together they hurry away in the direction of the house. Through the fat green leaves of the shrub, Sherlock glares after them. More than anything else he wants Michael gone. His presence upsets the whole household, he isn’t nice to John and he makes Mycroft act in a strange manner. Only two more days. Two long, frightfully horrible days. 

***

The day arrives when Michael takes his leave of them. Mummy is all simpering slightly apologetic smiles as they’re assembled in the hallway to take leave of the departing guest.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Michael grasps his hand, making Sherlock wince as the strong, somewhat sweaty grip presses his fingers.

“Goodbye,” he proffers and all but jerks his hand away.

Outside, David is standing next to the Rolls. Mycroft will accompany Michael to the train station to see him off. 

The moment they’ve entered the car, the smile drops from Mummy’s face like a mask being ripped off by an invisible hand. 

“Thank goodness,” her voice explodes in a heartfelt rush of relief. She puts her hand against her side. “Nanny!”

“Yes, Valerie?” Nanny’s voice drifts down from upstairs. 

“Will you come down here? I need you.”

Sherlock glances up at his mother but she appears to be oblivious of his presence. Which is fine as it allows him to steal away and wait for Mycroft’s return in his room.

***

“Sherlock, I won’t have you speak like that about my officers. I’ll give you two options and you’ll make your choice this instant: you can either behave or you can go.”

Seconds after the insults had left Sherlock’s mouth, Lestrade came bearing down upon the both of them. Gesturing for John to walk on and join the forensic team, he took a violent grip on the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat and started dragging him away, hissing between his teeth for Sherlock to shut up and stop struggling. They’ve covered four hundred yards at least before Lestrade comes to a halt and swivels around to address Sherlock, still holding on to his arm. They’re in for a heady discussion then. Their downwind position from the spot where a dead body awaits Sherlock’s scrutiny ensures John, Anderson, and the rest of the forensic team won’t hear their voices, no matter how loud they raise them. The DI locks himself into an aggressive stance: spread feet, arms folded over his chest, chin tucked up and a frown of displeasure on his face. Despite the fact Sherlock has a few inches on the man, Lestrade is doing his best to stare Sherlock down.

“Come on, Lestrade,” Sherlock tries to cajole the ruffled DI. “You know as well as I that whoever decided to recruit Anderson was either having an off-day, enduring a severe state of mental distress or just plain off his rocker. The man can’t be trusted not to botch up all the clues that would spring to the attention of a wheelchair-bound deaf and blind octogenarian busy enjoying his afternoon nap.”

“For your information, Sherlock, _I_ was one of the people who suggested hiring Anderson and so far I haven’t had any reason to regret my recommendation. He’s a thoroughly capable forensic expert and I want you to interact with him in a manner that at least resembles normal behaviour. I happen to know that’s not wholly beyond you.”

Snorting with disdain, Sherlock dismisses Lestrade’s contentions with a flick of the wrist that he realises is every bit as insulting as he wishes it to be.

“If Anderson is such an asset to the Yard, why did you text me to come down and have a look? John and I were enjoying our breakfast when we answered your summons and banged down our teacups to rush over here and assist you. Don’t tell me you’ve already fallen prone to dementia praecox, Lestrade? Not at your age, I hope. If you’ve changed your mind and decided you can do without our presence we won’t trouble you any further and be off then. Goodbye.”

He pivots on his heels and makes to stride off.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade calls. As Sherlock knew he would. Not bothering to hide the smug grin on his face he swirls around.

“Yes?” he asks sweetly.

Lestrade heaves a deep sigh that has obviously travelled upwards from the very tips of his toes. “Look here, you know I need you. I need you just about as much as you need me Sherlock for without me, how would you get your cases and keep your sanity, huh?

Indignant, Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt but Lestrade holds up his hand.

“No, listen to me. For once just listen to me, Sherlock. For the sake of our… well, whatever it is. We both know you’ve listened to me in the past. You can’t deny _all_ the advice I gave you then was wrong. We’re together in this, you can’t deny that, we’re… we’re like… we’re in a fucking symbiosis or something. You know, like a fungus and a tree or a clownfish and a sea anemone…”

“You don’t have to explain the concept of symbiosis to me, Lestrade,” Sherlock scorns. “I received the full benefits of a university education, you know. I assume you’re the clownfish then?”

“Yeah, whatever…”

“Although the only real clown around here is Anderson, obviously,” Sherlock sneers. “If you won’t go with my deduction that you were temporarily insane the day you decided to employ him you must confess you hired him to bring some merriment to the Yard. As if being forced to watch the infinite abyss of raging ineptitude of the average officer loitering about the premises wouldn’t have one fall over backwards with mirthless hilarity every day of the week. I – personally – must confess Anderson’s approach at humour eludes me. However, I will concede this may be one of my many shortcomings.”

“Sherlock, what…”

“Oh shut it, Lestrade. I’ll undertake to be perfectly pleasant to your precious Anderson from now on. Fingers crossed, see? And I’ll be nice to Sally as well, never mind she grabs every chance she’s offered to insult me. My feelings don’t count; I’m just a freak doing his tricks.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“Shall we end this conversation now and do some work, Detective Inspector? If I’d realised you’d summoned me here for a nice personal chat I would have remained at home to endure Mrs Hudson’s enchanting enunciations on Mrs Turner’s corns which I find about as enthralling as this charming little tête-à-tête if not more so. I’m so sorry to have offended you.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Look, I’ll talk to Sally, all right? Only promise…”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes! Can we be off now, Lestrade? I do admit you have a perfectly capable forensic expert going over your crime scene right this moment. Someone who’s most definitely not doing his utmost to contaminate all the evidence, but could you let me go and have a look? Just in case?”

***

Sometime later the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps in the corridor hits Sherlock’s ears. He remains ensconced on his bed, perfecting his posture of complete absorption in the contents of his book.

A soft knock falls on his door, soon followed by a slightly louder one as he doesn’t answer.

“Yes, who is it?” he calls out.

“You know it’s me, Sherlock. I’m coming in now.”

Sticking at his show of immersion in anything that isn’t to do with Mycroft, Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the page in front of him, even when the mattress bounces under Mycroft’s weight as he perches on the edge of the bed.

“Close your book, Sherlock. I know you’re just pretending to read.”

With a deep sigh, Sherlock lays the book aside and shifts his gaze over towards Mycroft who smiles faintly and reaches out with his hand to tousle Sherlock’s hair.

“Good boy,” he praises. “My plucky little brother. You behaved very well, Sherlock, even though you resented Michael’s presence here. I’m most grateful to you, especially for your adequate reaction during that unpleasant scene with Mummy.”

Sherlock nods.

“I’m sorry you didn’t like Michael,” Mycroft continues. “He’s taken quite a liking to you, being the youngest himself. I was hoping you’d reciprocate the sentiment for Michael has become very important to me. I’ve even briefly considered not going to Daddy’s college in order to be near him.”

At Sherlock’s incredulous wiggling of his eyebrows he replies: “I said briefly,” before falling silent, his hand still carding through Sherlock’s hair. 

Their peace is disrupted by the sound of the lawnmower driving up from the direction of the shed. With a curse Mycroft springs to his feet and strides over towards the window. 

“Damn that man and his infernal machinery,” he swears.

“What a dumb thing to say,” Sherlock retorts. The words have left his mouth before he’s even aware of the fact, his voice raised in automatic protest against the unreasonable criticism.

Slowly Mycroft turns and sets his eyes travelling over Sherlock’s form. To defy his examination, Sherlock makes sure to sprawl even wider on his bed. Inside his chest his heart is hammering away as he says: “I saw you.”

“You saw me?” Mycroft repeats. His fingers rest lightly against the window frame. Fiery flames flare up in his hair in the bright rays of the sun falling in through the window. 

“Yes, you and Michael.”

“Well,” Mycroft quizzes. “And so you did. Did it interest you?”

“No! I don’t understand.” Sherlock sits up. “All he did was make you lose control over yourself. Why did you do that, give yourself over to him? That’s the reason I hate that stupid school. Because all they teach you there is to obey without thinking. I don’t want that, I want to decide for myself what I will do and what I won’t!” The last sentence ends in a shout of frustration.

Maddeningly calm, Mycroft answers him. “I assure you Michael hasn’t made me do a thing I didn’t want to do. I do happen to remember we had reached an understanding on any eavesdropping. Or rather the lack of it.”

Oh, why does Mycroft have to remain so equably reasonable? Jumping off the bed, Sherlock balls his fists. “That’s not true! I heard him say you should come all over him and you would if he wanted you to!”

Even more infuriatingly Mycroft starts laughing. At first it’s a snigger bubbling up in his throat but soon the giggling erupts into a bout of loud gaiety that’s wholly uncharacteristic of Mycroft. It looks like he actually has to hold on to the window frame to prevent himself from collapsing with glee. Wiping his eyes he falls down on the windowsill. 

“Oh Sherlock,” he manages at last. “Oh my god, oh Sherlock. Wait till Michael hears this. Oh, I’m sorry Sherlock. Please… but… well, I warned you about the eavesdropping didn’t I? Come here, Sherlock.”

Patting the windowsill he indicates Sherlock should walk over to him. By now, Mycroft’s merriment has abated somewhat.

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice more or less his own again. “I… oh god… how awkward… Sherlock, surely you know about procreation, don’t you? I mean, well, Mr Fallon dealt with the subject in one of your classes, no doubt.”

The picture of Mummy’s insides springs up in front of Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes,” he forwards.

“Good. It all seems rather painful, doesn’t it?” 

Sherlock bobs his head up and down in confirmation. 

“Yes,” Mycroft assents. “Painful and… distasteful?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft laughs. “If that was so Sherlock, than why would they call the act itself ‘to make love’? For you see, that’s what created us. Mummy and Daddy made love and by making love they begot us.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know already, Mycroft. I had gathered as much from the book, except for the term. Daddy and Mummy made love twice, one time to make you and one time to make me. I’d got that.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Yes. Your reasoning is perfectly sound.” He makes to tousle Sherlock’s hair once again but Sherlock raises his arm to stop him. Raising his eyebrows questioningly Mycroft drops his hand again.

“I’m convinced they did it more often than that for you see to make love is very pleasant. Touching someone you like very much, someone you feel attracted to, releases a hoard of rewarding feelings in the brain and those are enhanced further as your partner returns the compliment by touching you in the same way. Engaging in those mutually agreeable feelings together tightens the bond between you and your partner and makes you want to repeat the act again and again.”

“So…?”

“I said attracted. Soon your body will start to change, Sherlock, same as mine has. Do you remember when I’d turned twelve and didn’t want to share the bath with you initially? You’re a little behind, I guess but the same will happen to you as well soon. Once that happens you will become aware you’ll have certain… urges. I remember I was very confused and…”

The continuous drone of the lawn mower outside is getting on Sherlock’s nerves. He wishes Mycroft would hurry up with his expostulation of whatever he’s explaining. It’s true, he’s not providing Sherlock with any new information so why do they have to sit here talking about a subject Mycroft would obviously much rather not talk about and what does it have to do with Michael? Unless… but why would they ever do that?

“Michael can’t have children. And besides you’re not married. Boys can’t marry each other.”

“No, they can’t. And a man can’t have children. But men can have the same feelings for each other that Mummy and Daddy had and wish to act upon it, to make love. Or two women. That’s what you saw and overheard, Sherlock. I love Michael and I want to make love to him.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Is that enough of an explanation for you?” Once more Sherlock has to fend off Mycroft’s hand. He looks out of the window where John is now driving off with the mower to the side of the house. The back of his mind has been broiling with a question and Sherlock licks his lips in preparation of posing it. He wonders whether he should, fearing the answer but it’s better to do so. Certainty is preferable by far to any lingering doubt.

“Does that mean you don’t love me anymore, Mycroft?”

His brother looks at him in horror.

“Oh no, Sherlock. Of course not, whatever gave you that idea?” he bursts forth and pulls Sherlock close to his chest. Sherlock holds on for dear life. More than anything he wants to sob with happiness and relief and he starts laughing as he feels the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Thank god, Mycroft.” He’s pulled in even closer to Mycroft’s body and he basks in the warmth of the snug fit against Mycroft’s side.

“I warned you against the eavesdropping, didn’t I? I hope you’ve learned your lesson and will remember to always, always listen to me.”

Smiling through his tears Sherlock gazes up at his brother. “I will, Mycroft. I promise.

***


	3. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here the Headmaster allows a deliberate pause to fall in his harangue, obviously expecting Sherlock to look up at him. After a brief inner debate Sherlock decides it would be best to do so. He lifts his head and locks eyes with the Headmaster. The man grimaces. His hands curl in on themselves on the desk so tight the knuckles stand out shining against the skin.

The smirk on Sebastian’s face makes Sherlock want to punch him in his bloody smug _phizog_. The annoying git who’s quickly crossing the entrance hall of the Shad Anderson bank hasn’t changed at all since the last time Sherlock saw him, about a decade ago. The same self-satisfied grin was ensconced on his features the first time Sherlock spotted him in the communal dining hall surrounded by a host of equally aggravating and unnecessarily boisterous cads. A hoard of despicable lackeys desperate for a pat on the shoulder from the great sun king in their midst.

In a corner with his book, Sherlock sat loathing the whole reprehensible lot of them bragging about their conquests of cheap Cambridge shop girls and their drinking binges, the more adventurous ones topping up the stories with talk of their forays into the wondrous world of illegal substances.

One morning, Sebastian had swaggered into the hall, declaring loudly he’d just enjoyed the best night ever; shagging two ‘incredibly hot chicks’. With a raised voice to garner as much of an audience as possible, he’d gone on to describe in excessive detail the various antics the three of them had engaged each other in until the small hours. Shrill hoots and catcalls and the urgent incitement to tell more rewarded his sumptuous story. The riotous clamouring of the group filled the hall, effectively ending the conversations other students were attempting to conduct over their breakfast and driving Sherlock to slap his book closed and rise to leave the hall in the search of quieter surroundings 

To reach the exit he had to pass the table where Sebastian’s court was assembled. He’d gone two steps past the chair on which Sebastian had perched himself when he heard the calculated insult hurled at his back. “Looks like our very own Virgin Queen’s ears are about to melt. Hurrying off for some self-service now.”

For a moment – an impossibly brief particle of eternity – Sherlock had contemplated feigning not to have heard and walk on as the general mirth erupted behind him. Next he knew he’d spun around on his heels and walked up to the annoying berk. 

“If I were to,” he’d said, looking down onto the stupid grin that was swung up at him, “I would be doing little else from what you appear to have been doing last night with your right and your left fist. I can see it must have hurt to have been spurned in the pub by a pair of thirty-five year old housewives on their monthly night out.”

A flare of discomfort had flickered over Sebastian’s features before he’d huffed with incredulity. “Whatever are you talking about, you stupid sod?”

“The proprietor of _The Free Press_ happens to be an acquaintance of mine. He will happily vouchsafe my version of your night of grand debauchery,” Sherlock had informed him. One of their witnesses had sniggered and Sebastian had shot him such a foul look that all the colour had drained away from the boy’s face.

“All right,” Sebastian had drawled at last, gazing up at Sherlock with his patented smug grin, “suppose your version of last night’s event is the actual truth then…” he sprang up from his chair and onto the table, spreading his arms wide like a triumphant conqueror basking in the adoration of his fellow soldiers he’d led through an excess of gore and slaughter, “…it still was a damned good story I gave you, didn’t I?”

Grasping their mugs the others started banging them on the table, shouting and whooping. Disgusted, Sherlock had fled the scene, raucous laughter ringing in his ears.

***

Of course Sebastian is perfectly aware of the end of the affair with Victor. The wedding featured rather widely in several of the Nation’s newspapers after all.

***

Regret is already worming its way into Sherlock’s heart by the time they’re following Sebastian through the ridiculously opulent lobby down to his no doubt equally tasteless office. He should never have come here. Moreover, he should never have brought John along. The affable doctor looks duly impressed with the surroundings. Sherlock is about to sigh inwardly when he detects the amused glint in his friend’s eye. Relief floods Sherlock’s chest. Of course John is perfectly capable of assessing the glittering façade for its true worth: a moth-eaten hide drawn around a withering corpse of idle vanity. By now Sherlock should have known he can put faith in his friend’s proper judgement.

***

“This is my friend John Watson,” Sherlock introduces John.

Of course Sebastian raises his eyebrows into a smirk as he repeats: _“Friend?”_ , insinuating he doesn’t believe the concept of Sherlock enjoying a friendship would be feasible.

John reacts immediately. Sherlock can already feel the triumphant smile start curling at the corners of his lips when John says: _”Colleague.”_

A sharp blow to his solar plexus couldn’t have wounded and surprised him more than John’s alteration of Sherlock’s words in front of the complacent git.

The smile withers and is replaced by a look of hurt he can’t prevent fleeting over his face. Sherlock can actually feel it. Sebastian’s nasty glance of unholy glee confirms that his usual mask of aloof disdain has cracked for an instant. Behind his back he grips one hand with the other. He arches his eyebrows at Sebastian and pivots on his heels, distancing himself from the doctor.

_Colleague._

Said by the man who killed for him the day after they met, giggled with him at a crime scene and told him over a bowl of steaming hot chow mein how bad he had felt the first time he had taken down a man, even though the man had been about to shoot a mate. The man who had greeted him with tea and toast as Sherlock sauntered yawning into the living room on the morning of the third day of their acquaintance, not batting an eyelid at the sight of his flatmate in pyjamas and dressing gown but repaying the compliment by showing up at the breakfast table in matching attire the next morning. The man he’d considered to be his first true friend after Oliver (and Mr Talbot, and John and Mr Mancini but they were grown-ups when he was still a boy so that’s different). 

His _colleague_ appears to be oblivious of the emotions his casual correction has evoked in his flatmate. Perfectly at ease, he leans back in his chair, smiling and nodding affably at Sebastian’s galling banter. Seething inwardly, Sherlock endures their exchange, forcing himself to stay seated and not bark at Sebastian to cut the crap and start filling them in on the details of the case. That’s the only reason he didn’t delete Sebastian’s email straightaway after all. His hateful uni acquaintance had sketched a highly intriguing problem in his message.

When Sebastian’s taunting offers him the chance of an acerbic riposte he grabs it with both hands. The obvious clue to his question is poised around the banker’s wrist, clamouring for envious attention while he sits showing it off with his hands clasped in front of his chin, and giving away all the evidence Sherlock needs as he informs Sebastian sweetly: “I was chatting to your secretary outside. She told me.”

John’s small giggle sparks off next to him, lighting a beatific smirk on Sherlock’s face. The banker glowers at them and rearranges himself in his chair to start his exposé of the case.   
Dismissing the disturbing whirl of emotions – just why should it be important what John Watson thinks of him? He’s just another idiot like the rest of them – Sherlock perks himself up in his chair to listen.

The CCTV-footage causes a gulf of excitement to surge in Sherlock’s chest. Careful to maintain the expression of detached boredom on his face he inspects the former Chairman’s office. Turning his back on Sebastian he flits over the trading floor, ducking and dancing to the rhythm of impressions and possible solutions drumming inside his head. By the time he’s pocketed the name plate on the door to Eddie Van Coon’s office he’s completely recovered. Even though the entrance hall is buzzing loudly with the sounds of voices and ringtones bouncing off the huge glass walls, his ears detect John’s quiet sigh of exasperated acceptance of the situation as he dashes off in search of a taxi. 

At the kerb, Sherlock raises his arm to find a cab halting in front of him after a mere three seconds. Ignoring John, he sweeps up his coattails and installs himself in the backseat of the cab. The balance of his universe is restored.

Sherlock leads and John follows and that’s as it should be.

***

_1st October, 1988_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_My dear boy, what an eventful summer lies behind you. My pupil, his mother and I have just returned from an extended tour of the United States of America so you will have to excuse me for not replying to your letters before now. Upon reading them I wished our journey had been shorter so I could have answered you sooner._

_Sherlock, like I told you before I won’t disclose to you what is not mine to tell so you should stop asking me to do so, regarding both John’s and Mycroft’s affairs. From what you’ve written I’ve surmised Mycroft has been very open and frank with you. Do you really wish for me to stress the extent of my admiration for your elder brother once more? You should always remember he lost his father at too young an age as well and remind yourself of the terrible responsibility that was laid upon his shoulders on that dreadful day your father died._

_Instead of indulging your jealousy – please do me the courtesy of admitting the despicable feeling to yourself, as it will help you overcome it – you ought to fight the sentiment and be happy for Mycroft. He has found someone to be at ease with and to play with. Man is a playful animal, Sherlock. You _play_ the violin, you act in _plays_ (by the way, you didn’t write what part you will be playing this term), you _play_ in your Mr Fallon’s class. Mycroft is discovering the joys of a different game now, a game most grown-ups find irresistible; your brother isn’t alone in this. Allow him to do so and don’t begrudge him his happiness with someone outside your small circle. You don’t have to like the boy, but for your brother’s sake you should be tolerant of him. Maybe the boy is all you believe him to be. If so, Mycroft will have to find out for himself and learn a lesson no one can teach him but life itself. You, being his little brother, are the last person in the world to reproach him for the choices he makes. Once you’re Mycroft’s age you might find yourself lured into partaking in the game as well. Nearly all of us do. Will it help if I confess to you even your old tutor succumbed to the temptation when he was but a little older than Mycroft is now? _

_I was very pleased with two other letters I found in the huge stack awaiting me at my return. Both Mr Fallon and Mr Steward exerted themselves in their praise of your endeavours during the last trimester. Naturally I’ve requested them to drive you a little harder. I wouldn’t want you to end up bored; the thought of the havoc you would wreak upon the school’s property in a state of ennui sends shivers of horror shuddering down my spine._

_Though I tell myself daily one should approach the world with an open mind I shan’t keep from you I felt profound relief once the aeroplane that transported us home touched the soil of our small island again. Though we met nothing but friendliness and courtesy I found the American people in general a tad too loud for my taste. However, over the years they have assembled some fine collections of art. My pupil professed himself most interested in the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright so we extended the duration of our stay to visit some of the houses the master built in Chicago and Los Angeles. Very impressive, though a little exuberant._

_Please remember to tell me what play you’ll be acting in when you write to me next._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Edmund Talbot_

***

Christmas consists of five days of visitors. Sherlock spends the better part of that time together with John in the shed, cleaning and repairing the garden implements. After some extensive nagging, John agrees to teach Sherlock how to use a soldering iron, but not until he has lectured Sherlock for a whole fifteen minutes straight on the importance of wearing protective goggles at all times, no matter how small the job that needs doing. One day, Sherlock hauls his microscope over to the shed and together they collect soil samples for Sherlock to examine and John even allows him to take a closer look at a few grains of some of the poisons and weed killers he stores on the high shelves through the microscope’s magnifying lenses. 

The afternoons are devoted to further instruction in the art of boxing. First of all, Sherlock has to show what Mr Willoughby has taught him lately. John sits observing his pupil, sipping his tea and munching a mince pie. Sherlock dances through the shed, proud of his fast footwork and the sharp punch of his right arm. Grunting with the effort he works himself into a sweat, until the drops fall from his brow into his lashes. The flushed skin of his face pricks with the heat. One minute he notices how John places his mug on the workbench, the next moment the wiry small man is dancing before him, delivering quick hard blows that would connect painfully with the surfaces of his body if John hadn’t such marvellous control over his. 

“Defend yourself, Sherlock,” John hisses between his teeth. “Imagine I’ve managed to turn the scales, withstanding your aggression, and now I’m the one on the attack. Make me work for it, wear me down, keep your arms up to protect your head and your stomach.”

Another sharp hit, catching Sherlock by surprise. It would have knocked Sherlock down if John’s fist hadn’t swerved away at the last moment. 

“Enough,” John declares after he has chased Sherlock around the shed three times. “Here.” He produces a towel out of one of the cupboards and throws it at Sherlock who catches it gratefully and starts wiping his neck. His breathing is quick as he buries his face in the towel. John, on the other hand, doesn’t even look flushed. He prepares them two mugs of tea, adding plenty of sugar to Sherlock’s. 

“You should drink,” he smiles. Even though the tea is scalding hot, Sherlock downs it in a few slugs and holds out his cup for more. Nodding, John turns and fills the kettle with water.

“You did well, Sherlock,” he says with his back turned. “I’m impressed, really. Nothing wrong with your attacks. You’ll have to ask your Mr Willoughby to concentrate on your defences for the next few lessons. I think you’ll meet few opponents that will last long under the assault you’re likely to treat them to. Still, you ought to be prepared for the one who will be smart enough to wait until you’ve exhausted yourself.”

“Mr Willoughby says aggression protects you against aggression.”

“Hmm, your Mr Willoughby is a young man, isn’t he? I’ve always found patience to be a better safeguard against a violent opponent. Dodge the blows, don’t seek them.”

The kettle boils. John dumps the teabags into the mugs and pours on the water.

“Always worked perfectly fine for me,” he concludes.

***

The glass in Mycroft’s hand is never empty as he ambulates around the rooms, smiling and dipping his head, pausing every once in a while to speak with someone. With glittering eyes he listens to their answers, pretending to be enthralled by the pointless blather, nodding sagely and coughing deferentially behind his fist before offering his own opinion on the subject. Now and then the glass hovers at his lips but his Adam’s apple doesn’t bob up and down to swallow so he just pretends to sip the wine. And yet the level of the liquid in the glass varies as if he were indeed drinking and he lifts a new glass of wine regularly from one of the trays that are whisked around the rooms by the hired personnel. 

Ensuring there’s always a screen of at least five guests between himself and Mycroft, Sherlock pursues his brother zigzagging through the throngs of people milling around. The rooms are filled with the drone of people talking and arguing. The level of the buzz steadily increases in accordance with the amount of alcohol that is slung down various throats. A sudden outburst of laughter ricochets off the walls every now and then, rousing Mummy from her tranquil absentmindedness. Her eyes wander towards Nanny who makes sure she’s close to where Mummy resides on the sofa in front of the mantelpiece in the yellow drawing room. On cue, Nanny hands her a lace handkerchief she’s wetted with a few drops of lavender water. While dabbing her throat, Mummy smiles benignly at her guests, patting the space beside her with her hand to invite one of the despicable men that circle the sofa like hyenas to take a seat and converse with her.

The ostentatious glitter of the Christmas decorations and the jewels bedecking the arms and necks of the women milling about the rooms hurts Sherlock’s eyes. Flitting through the packed mass of Britain’s elite, he wrinkles his nose as it is brought into close contact with dinner jacket-clad backs or worse, the elaborate hairdos of some of the women. Otherwise he works hard at maintaining a vaguely apologetic frown on his face.

His constant attention to his brother’s perambulations delivers him the answer to the mystery at last. Every time Mycroft ends up near the conservatory he enters it, smiles charmingly at the small clumps of guests seeking some relief from the heat and loud clatter in the drawing rooms and lingers near the great palm for a few moments. The big plant rises from a monstrous copper holder, its dark leaves shiny with health. With a blank look on his face Mycroft stands juggling the glass until it disappears behind his back where the liquid is tipped neatly into the plant holder. When Sherlock inspects it a few minutes later he discovers a glass vase buried in the earth, filled with a generous amount of wine. 

“Neat, isn’t it?” Mycroft’s voice is laced with amusement. Sherlock pivots on his heels and stares at Mycroft.

“Yes, it is,” he replies. “But why go to all the bother?”

Mycroft chuckles.

“We’re an isle of drunkards, Sherlock. Unless one’s seen wielding a glass of alcohol on a more or less permanent basis people won’t take you seriously. To actually drink the stuff would be stupid; it’s our brain cells’ biggest enemy. At first I’d thought up an elaborate system of marked glasses filled with grape juice or coloured water but I rejected the idea because it had me rely upon the discretion and alertness of others. So I devised this solution to my little problem. Imagine my surprise when I found the vase already waiting among the palm’s roots. Daddy must have faced the same difficulty and hit upon the same remedy. We’ll need to install a bigger vase once you turn eighteen.”

***

Then it’s five more days of Michael visiting but at least David is free to drive him over to Mr Mancini every afternoon. His teacher has one of his former pupils staying with him over the holiday season. The three of them work on an adapted version of Beethoven’s ‘Serioso’ quartet. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock notes his old teacher beaming in the direction of his pupils while he wields his bow over the strings. At first he’s a little shy of the guest, a Mr Whitall, but after the man has praised his bowing technique, revelling upon the fact that his shoulder remains perfectly still, Sherlock warms to him and by the end of the week he’s very sorry to see Mr Whitall go.

“I’m convinced we’ll chance upon each other in one of the world’s concert halls one day, Sherlock,” the violinist tells him on their last day. Sherlock holds the man’s supple fingers for a long time. Behind them David honks the car horn impatiently. He complains of being pressed for time constantly since he took over the shop from his father three months ago.

“I’m certain we will, Mr Whitall,” Sherlock replies politely. “I hope we will,” he adds.

“Good boy,” Mr Mancini says. “You’re both good boys. Now hurry Sherlock, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

In the car Sherlock turns on the backseat and waves at Mr Whitall for a long time.

***

“Holmes, you may consider yourself to be god’s gift to this school’s swimming team but I’ve never seen a more rotten lacrosse player. Move that lazy ass of yours, goddamn it! You can move, can’t you? It’s not like you’ve become a statue all of a sudden. Do you really think the ball will magically whisk up in front of you if you remain standing there?”

The insults are hurled at him through an amplifier, for the benefit of the whole school apparently. From beneath his helmet, Sherlock glares at Coach, the man he loathes the most of all the teachers he hates and despises. An icy March wind bears down upon them, tugging at their outfits and finding every gap in their clothing to wrap them in a gust of cold that feels like it originated at the North Pole. Several of the smaller boys are crying, their hands frozen and numb, reduced to pathetic red twigs that are barely able to hold on to their stick, let alone wield it.

“All right. I’ve had enough. You’re provoking me, Holmes! You little piece of shit, deliberately provoking me. What do you think you are, you asshole! Get off the goddamned field. Over here. Now!”

Oh, if only he dared to fling down his stick and walk off. But that will result in being called into Mrs Norton’s office for a scolding after which he can go on to the Headmaster’s office to have the whole sermon rehashed again. 

Furiously yanking his helmet from his head, Sherlock starts trotting to the side of the field.

_I hate you, you moron. I hate you for picking me out every single time…_

The moment he ends up in front of Coach and shifts his gaze to the man’s face, Coach lifts his arm and slaps him on his right cheek – hard, using his full strength. Before Sherlock can react an equally vicious blow is delivered to his other cheek. If it weren’t for the sharp sting burning his cheekbones he would have collapsed at the man’s feet. 

“Sir—” he starts and is rewarded for his objection by a shove that nearly sends him reeling.

“You repel me,” Coach snarls. “You ought to be the fastest player in the field. I _know_ you’re fast but the way you move a slug would outrun you. Even that useless dolt of a Winchester is faster than you are, you slimy sod. You do it on purpose because you’re nothing but an arrogant, aggravating little piece of shit and I’ve had enough. You can start running around the field now and every time I catch you going slower than eight miles per hour for ten seconds straight you’ve earned yourself another ten rounds. Now!”

The stunned silence that has arrested the others is almost palpable, a nebulous shroud of fear clinging to the field. None of them can believe this is happening. The teachers are honour-bound not to swear at them, let alone strike them. A tentative whimper of protest is uttered by one of Sherlock’s classmates and withers when Coach threatens to extend the punishment to the whole class. 

A shunt against his back sets Sherlock going, tears of humiliation and frustration pricking behind his eyes. The wind whips at his cheekbones, adding to the burn. Hot anger has enveloped his body in a burning coil of barbed wire, pulled so tight he can feel the flames licking his skin. His legs do their mechanical trick of pumping up and down, carrying him around the field while his mind is busy compiling all the different – violent – ways in which he would like to revenge himself upon Coach. His initial sense of discomfiture at his fierce fantasies is swallowed by Coach’s raw voice barking at him he’s a lazy sod and has just earned himself another ten rounds.

Sherlock recognises the correction for a proclamation of total open warfare and he decides to accept the hatchet right there and then. He moulds his features into a simpering mask of obedience and slows down, legs still pounding the wet grass in a deliberate mockery of running as hard as he can. The man won’t dare hit him, not again, not in front of the entire class. 

“That’s twenty rounds.”

Sherlock finds he can actually run at a slower pace.

“Thirty.”

And slower still. Coach’s outraged frustration is a lurid monster of hatred engulfing the field, reaching with its suckered tentacles to pull Sherlock close and smother him in the liquid fire of his venom. Sadly for Coach, Sherlock is coated in a strong invisible armour of disdain, protecting him against all the damage the beast might wish to inflict on him. 

“Forty.”

By now Sherlock is certain he is smirking.

“Fifty.”

The charade goes on for another ten minutes before Coach dismisses the class, realising he’s making a spectacle of himself in front of his pupils. No one is going to believe he will want Sherlock to circle the lacrosse field two hundred and fifty times. 

“You keep at it, Holmes,” Coach shouts and starts shooing the others to the changing rooms. The moment they’ve all entered the building Sherlock falls down on the grass. He pats his cheekbones with his fingertips, they feel a little tender still but the skin isn’t cut. This is strange as Coach struck him real hard with his right hand flat against his cheek so he’d expect a mark from the man’s wedding ring. Except, now he remembers, Coach wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. Odd.

“Holmes!”

Coach’s voice bellows across the field. Sherlock springs to attention but remains standing in his place while coach walks up to him.

“For your information, Holmes, I’ll have you know you’re an insolent, annoying little brat and I give up on you. You’re absolved from classes for the rest of the year. I can’t stand the idea of having to watch that brazen smirk on that ugly mug of yours for the months to come. Now go and shower and make sure I don’t see you before the next term starts.”

A jolt of triumph shoots up in Sherlock’s stomach.

“Yes sir,” he says. Coach glowers at him and then he turns abruptly on his heels and starts walking off. Sherlock looks after him. The man’s shoulders sag a little. He’s beaten. Sherlock has beaten him.

***

Of course Mrs Norton notices the bruises on his cheeks even though they’re fairly light.

“Oh Sherlock,” she sighs. “Why do you always have to fight?”

She shakes her head and tuts disapprovingly. 

***

A week later he’s sitting in the study room when Mrs Norton walks up to him with a worried mien.

“The Headmaster wants to speak to you, Sherlock. You’re to go to him straightaway. He didn’t tell me what’s it about? What have you done, Sherlock?”

At her words Edward raises his head before hunching it back between his shoulders like a rabbit caught in the headlights of the car that comes hurling along at neck-breaking speed.   
Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing, Mrs Norton. I don’t understand why he would want to talk to me, honestly.”

Her eyes narrow as she watches him.

“All right,” she says at last. “I believe you. Well, I suppose you’d better hurry up and find out.”

Sherlock pushes his chair backwards.

“Wait. You can’t go into the Headmaster’s office with such an unruly mop of curls,” she says and starts combing his hair.

“Good luck, Sherlock,” Edward whispers. 

“You go on doing your homework, Edward,” Mrs Norton tells him. As if Edward ever needs to be instructed to do so. 

***

“Enter.”

The Headmaster’s room sports one of the best views in the whole school. Behind the high windows an endless vista of well-kept lawn with attractive clumps of trees and flowers enhanced by a baroque fountain unfolds itself. Bright light floods the room, highlighting the figure of the Headmaster behind his broad desk directly in front of the windows and necessitating his visitors to blink their eyes continuously against the glare.

His chair tilted slightly backwards, the Headmaster pretends to be absorbed in reading some papers while Sherlock stands in front of the desk in the prescribed deferential stance, hands clasped behind his back, gaze lowered towards the floor. 

“Ah, Holmes,” the man remarks at last, as if he’s just become aware Sherlock has indeed entered the room after he was told to do so. Frowning slightly he puts down the papers and starts arranging them on his desk. Then he takes off his glasses and folds them with great care before depositing them exactly in front of him.

“Holmes,” he repeats. The glasses have all his attention. Outside a group of boys crosses the turf; their loud voices spiral upwards and into the room like the dust particles that whirl around in the slanting sunlight, glinting against the dark surfaces of the desk and the heavy velvet curtains.

Still looking down at the glasses, the Headmaster addresses Sherlock. First he coughs behind his hand and then his voice sounds, hawkish and gruff.

“Tell me, Holmes. Why is it that in my mind your name has become a synonym for trouble? When your brother first approached me with his request to admit you to this institution of primary education he promised me in accepting you the school would profit from a prime model of everything a pupil should be. Diligent, inquisitive, polite, musical, athletic, the English language contained not enough adjectives for your brother to enumerate your many accomplishments.”

Picking up the papers the Headmaster continues to speak.

“The very first day you entered this school you ended up in a fight with two of your dorm mates. Both of them had already proved themselves good boys with the right sort of pluck in the previous year. Sadly, that brawl wasn’t the last one.”

Now the Headmaster shakes the papers at Sherlock.

“In here I’ve recorded all the instances that have come to my notion of embroilments in which you’ve featured. Not a very uplifting file, at least I don’t think so, maybe you care to think different. But then, what you think is not of interest to me. My business is what other people make of you.”

The papers fall down on the desk’s surface again.

“I’ll be honest with you. A number of your teachers can’t praise you highly enough. Your grades are excellent throughout. Your performance in the school plays delights the audiences. However, both Mr Lawrence and Mr Atkinson consistently complain to me about what they term and I quote ‘his protracted disturbing staring which gives me the shivers’. You have a worrying habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time. I’ll concede the Browning affair wasn’t your fault, and yet I can’t help feeling sorry for the boy for you must have inspired a deep hatred in him for him to want to revenge himself in this way.”

Here the Headmaster allows a deliberate pause to fall in his harangue, obviously expecting Sherlock to look up at him. After a brief inner debate Sherlock decides it would be best to do so. He lifts his head and locks eyes with the Headmaster. The man grimaces. His hands curl in on themselves on the desk so tight the knuckles stand out shining against the skin.

“That however,” he continues, “is not the reason I’ve called you here. A complaint has been lodged against one of the masters. Against one of the longest-serving and most popular masters in this school. A man universally liked and respected, not a blemish on his reputation. You know what I’m talking about.”

He regards Sherlock expectantly but Sherlock has no idea what the Headmaster may be referring to. All he can think of is the incident with Coach but he has told no one about the episode as he is quite happy with the outcome. He can’t imagine Mr Willoughby complaining about Coach as Mr Willoughby is dependent on Coach’s goodwill towards him for his employment. Therefore, he replies truthfully: “No sir. I don’t sir.” 

The Headmaster sucks in a great gulp of breath through his teeth. His right fist trembles on the desk.

“By Jove,” he grits. “You really make one’s blood boil. No wonder Coach hit you. I would like to hit you myself.”

Sherlock remains quiet.

“I won’t have any complaints lodged against Coach, do you understand?” the Headmaster goes on. “I told the accuser I would take the matter up with you and Coach both. I’ve already had a little talk with Coach. It turns out he’s been under a lot of stress lately. I knew his marriage was going through the mill but now it appears a week ago his wife told him she wants a divorce. A very unpleasant business all in all.”

Maybe he should nod now to indicate he understands Coach must have been stricken to find out his wife had come to her senses at last.

“Of course Coach’s behaviour was unforgivable, highly unprofessional, way off the mark. But it _was_ , I think, highly understandable, especially when seen in the light of whom he was dealing with.”

The Headmaster’s eyes travel up and down Sherlock’s form and back again.

“Of course you can’t be excused from his lessons for the time remaining till the summer. I told Coach to brace himself and just work you harder. We reached the conclusion you only needled him in the hopes of getting out of his lessons. Well, I won’t have it. You need to learn insolent behaviour won’t be rewarded. Mind you, I only have your interests in mind. Your present stance towards others won’t get you very far. Mr Steward has told me you are a Latinist. Please be so good as to translate the following lines for me: _Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim._ ”

“Be patient and tough; some day this pain will be useful to you,” translates Sherlock.

The Headmaster smiles. “Exactly. Now, I’ve considered this school has been treating you a bit too kindly so far Holmes. Clearly, you with your obstinate character need an iron-fisted hand to guide you in the right direction. Otherwise life will indeed prove to be a hard nut to crack, Holmes. You’ve been given so many advantages, you should start making use of them.”

He picks up the glasses and starts toying with them. 

“To begin with you can write that quote five hundred times for me, with the translation on separate sheets, five hundred times as well. I’ll expect to be lying on my desk tomorrow morning at nine.”

The Headmaster puts the glasses down again.

“You may go now.”

***

Once he’s outside he runs off to the far copse. He doesn’t know at whom he’s more angry, at Coach for starting this all, at the Headmaster for wilfully regarding everything in the worst possible light or towards the unknown informer whose blabbing has landed him the lines of punishment and the obligation to attend Coach’s classes again. It must be someone in the school for he hasn’t written to Mycroft nor to Mr Talbot about the affair. His thoughts flit to Warburton and Pleasance but he dismisses the idea straightaway, the last few months they’ve reached a tacit understanding to leave each other alone.

Mrs Norton? No, she seemed genuinely puzzled when she notified him the Headmaster wished to speak to him. It must be one of his classmates. But whom?

At the thought of Edward he barks out a laugh. Edward is afraid of his own shadow, he wouldn’t dare approach the Headmaster to inform upon a master. No, the notion is ridiculous. 

Seated with his back against his favourite tree he sits turning over the different possibilities for a long time while tugging at his lower lip. At last he concedes the search is useless and he’d better go and get started on those lines. With a sigh he raises himself and begins the trek to the dorm building.

***

Edward gently touches Sherlock’s shoulder. “How did it go?” he asks with glittering eyes.

“Bad,” Sherlock growls. “I’ve been given lines of punishment and he wants me to join Coach’s classes again.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock looks down at the sheets of paper again. He’s just written ‘proderit’ for the three hundred and twenty-first time. When Edward collapses on the chair next to him he shoots him a wry look. To his astonishment Edward has scrunched his fists tight against his eye sockets.

“Hey, what…,” he starts.

Edward sniffles and then the wet rivulets start running down his cheeks. 

“Oh Sherlock,” he moans. “Oh, how awful. How, how could he? He promised me he would talk with Coach, he would talk with you. He said he understood it wasn’t your fault. He would be kind to you and now…”

Sherlock catches himself staring at Edward in open-mouthed astonishment.

“It was you,” he says. “You went to the Headmaster and told him about what happened.”

Edward nods. “Yes,” he whispers. He lets his hand fall but his eyes are closed and he turns his head away from Sherlock. “I… I… I felt… What Coach did, to strike you and yell at you, it was so unjust. I was really angry. And then I decided for once I wouldn’t be a despicable coward and I asked for an interview with the Headmaster and I told him everything and… and… he promised. He did promise, truly Sherlock. He was very kind and I felt so good for having done you a good turn and now it’s all gone sour.”

He hides his face in his palms again. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry for getting you into this mess. I didn’t mean to…”

Sherlock frowns down on his lines. “It was you,” he repeats. After a moment he sits up.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you, Edward, for you went to the Headmaster with the best of intentions.” He falls silent, next to him Edward continues his sobbing. 

“With the best of intentions,” restates Sherlock. “You, seeing who you are, did an incredibly brave thing, against the very essence of your nature, and it ended in me being worse off than I was before your interference.”

Edward’s head bobs up and down in frantic agreement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again.

“You’re a bumbling idiot, Edward,” Sherlock tells him. “A very kind one but an idiot still. You see, but you don’t observe. If you did observe you’d have noticed the Headmaster bears me nothing but ill will. In lodging your complaint with him you gave him the perfect excuse to get at me.”

“Yes, I see that now.”

“Just promise me one thing, Edward.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Anything you wish.”

“Don’t try playing hero again the next time something happens. The role doesn’t suit you. You should know that by now.”

Edward looks up at him, his eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“Oh Sherlock…” His mouth wavers on a fresh round of tears. The salty liquid that Edward feeds on. 

With a brusque gesture Sherlock pushes back the chair and grabs his pen and papers.

“Oh stop it!” he shouts. “Stop it and leave me alone.”

He makes for the exit of the room and storms out, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

_OOPS! WRONG BED, ED!_

_Edward Winchester, the talented Chancellor of the Exchequer in the shadow cabinet, announced his immediate resignation of his office today after it came out last week he had cheated on his wife with a twenty-year old student from the London Business School. Mr Winchester, well known for his stern views regarding family values, admitted he had disappointed voters by trespassing against the beliefs many of them hold most dear. His wife was at his side when he made his announcement to the press this afternoon. She stated she had forgiven him for what she described as: “A rare moment of weakness, against the very essence of dear Edward’s nature.” According to Mr Winchester…_

Sherlock shakes his head while reading the article. He heaves a deep sigh. Poor Edward, poor bumbling idiot. 

“What is it,” John asks, interrupting his typing to swivel around and look at Sherlock.

“Nothing,” Sherlock answers. “The human race is nothing but a bunch of morons, John.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not saying anything new, you know. I hear you say so every day.” He turns to squint at the laptop screen again. “Erhm, can you explain again how you concluded the pillars were important?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I wonder what is more tedious, my daily repetition of a fact or your daily repetition of proving me right,” he grumbles but John ignores the taunt.

“Pillars, Sherlock.”

“Fine. It’s a matter of perspective really. Did you know that in all of Vermeer’s paintings they’ve discovered a little hole…”

***


	4. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten days later he receives his answer. When he opens the envelope a balloon and a novelty key ring with a little plastic police hat fall out. These he ignores for the accompanying letter. The average length of the sentences adds to ten words. He detects four grammar mistakes and his name is misspelt two times. In the letter a Sgt Barnes thanks him heartily for his observations before going on to suggest he watches too much telly and should leave the important jobs to grown-ups.

“Good morning, Molly.”

At his greeting, Molly turns. The test tube drops from her hand and shatters on the floor, staining the pink leather of her boots with blood. The fierce red of the blood matches the blush creeping up her throat out of the folds of her frilly pink blouse.

“Oh, oh, Sherlock, hello. I hadn’t heard you come in. Silly me, oh.” The look she sends him is a study in agony and hopeless naked need. She’s reduced to an anxious hopping from one foot onto another, transformed into a skittish little mouse that’s spied the cat and knows it should make a run for it but finds it can’t. Her huge Bambi eyes blink up at him, begging him to at least be kind to her. 

John instructed him in fierce tones to behave decently when Sherlock announced he would be going to Bart’s to do some tests. Sherlock wants nothing better than to live up to his promise but Molly is sure putting him to a test he hadn’t looked forward to conducting with her ridiculous behaviour. Sighing inwardly, he walks over towards the towel dispenser, yanks out a few of the flimsy paper towels and offers them to Molly.

“Oh, thank you,” she says and bends down to clean her shoes. Her head bumps against the edge of the work bench with an audible thud and she cries out in pain, her hand scooting up towards her eyebrow. On cue his arms shoot out to catch her by the arms and keep her upright before she can totter backwards and crash into the cupboards. 

“Oh,” she sniffs. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” The tears start flowing, together with the blood from the cut on her eyebrow. 

He lets go of one arm to fish for a Kleenex in his coat pocket. Molly’s sobs increase in volume and before he can prevent her she’s sagged in his arms, rubbing her face against his chest and smirching his favourite light blue shirt with an insoluble mixture of tears, mascara and blood. 

“Molly,” he says and he’s certain John would be proud of him for he can’t discern the slightest trace of the seething impatience he feels in the tone of his voice. “Molly, I suggest you go and find a doctor to stitch your eyebrow for you. As luck would have it we actually are in a hospital so finding someone to attend to your needs shouldn’t prove too difficult.”

Upon hearing his words she starts blubbing even louder and he’s certain the stain on his shirt front must have increased to a three inch diameter by now. “Oh, please, Sherlock. Oh, I’m so sorry.” 

“Yes. I reciprocate the sentiment. However, standing here bawling like an idiot won’t help you to have your wound properly attended to.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right of course.” She lifts her head and accepts the Kleenex he holds out to her, raising her bedraggled face to look at him. “You’re too kind,” she continues nervously while dabbing her brow. Then her gaze lands on the pathetic ruins of his shirt.

“Oh,” she gasps, “oh Sherlock, I’m so…”

“Let me guess. You’re sorry,” he interrupts her, gritting his teeth. “Look here, Molly. I strongly suggest you leave this lab now to have someone look at that eyebrow, for even a man more patient than I am would consider your demonstration of awkwardness a bit much to bear before ten thirty on a Tuesday morning.”

He hands her another Kleenex which she grabs with a dazed expression.

“Oh heavens, oh yes. Uhhmm, I’m… never mind. I’ll be off then.” She hurries towards the door and has already opened it when she pivots on her heels. 

“Shall we have a drink when I come back? Like coffee?”

He rolls his eyes at her insistence on bringing him coffee every single time he pays a visit to her facilities but he reminds himself of his sworn word of honour he would be gentle with her and so he tells her before immersing himself in his phone in search of a tutorial on the removal of make-up stains: “Yes. Black, two sugars, please.”

***

The sun beats down out of a brazenly blue sky, smothering all sound in a blanket of languid heat. Sherlock and Mycroft are sitting on the terrace with the chessboard on the table between them. Two minutes ago, Sherlock made his move and now Mycroft is pondering his next action on the squared field of battle, fingers tugging at his lower lip while his gaze wanders the board. Hidden beneath the table, Sherlock is rubbing his hands in secret glee, he just _knows_ he’s put Mycroft into an impossible situation. Behind him he can hear the droning buzz of the bumblebees briskly patrolling the rose garden. A soft breeze ruffles the frill of the parasol that protects them against the glare of the sun.

The summer holidays. Seven whole weeks stretching ahead of him. Michael won’t come down for a visit until the last week. It will be just him and Mycroft together for six glorious weeks.

“Shall we go for a swim after we’ve finished, Mycroft?”

“No distracting tactics, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles, Mycroft must be stymied, in desperate search of an opening, or he wouldn’t have responded straight away.

The gauze curtain in front of the open French doors billows on a draft of wind. He walks over and discerns Brenda with a tray in her hands entering the yellow drawing room. He lifts the curtain to the side.

“Thank you, Sherlock. You’re at least kind to me,” she says and steps onto the terrace to place the tray on the table. “Here’s the morning’s post, Mycroft. And some lemonade for Sherlock and your morning coffee as well. Cook told me to bring you the whole lot, never mind I still have to wash all the windows in the left wing of the house. She made strawberry tartlets this morning. They’re real nice, I already had me two.” 

She lingers a little longer, busying herself with pouring Sherlock his lemonade and Mycroft his coffee.

“Oh my, it’s real nice out here,” she sighs. “I do envy the two of you. I wish I could sit outside doing nothing all day.”

“We’ve both worked quite hard at our studies,” Mycroft reproves her. “Have you seen Nanny by the way? I reminded her to take a day off for a change and enjoy the sun while it lasts.”

“She’s upstairs in your mother’s room sorting her linen. I told her I would do it if only she’d ask but you know what she’s like.”

“Yes, that will be all. Thank you, Brenda,” Mycroft dismisses her, leaving Brenda no choice but to stomp back inside to be scolded and lectured by her mother and Nanny and Cook.

Without paying heed to her departure, Mycroft sorts through the letters. He opens some of them and scans them quickly before laying them aside. Sherlock hovers next to him; his gaze switching between Mycroft and the doors through which Brenda disappeared.

“Don’t feel sorry for her,” growls Mycroft after a minute. “She’d be worse off anywhere else.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock sits down and takes a sip of his lemonade, deliberately looking past Mycroft from behind the screen of his eyelashes. The moment he puts his glass back on the table a loud racket erupts in the house. Doors are thrown shut with a crashing noise and high-pitched shrieks render the air asunder. Mycroft and Sherlock jump up simultaneously as Mummy comes tearing into the room and onto the terrace. Her face is a fearsome mask of horror and grief; her long grey hair swirling about her in snaking tendrils and Sherlock feels himself turn to stone as he casts eyes upon this mythical creature of insanity and death that is his mother. Her shaking hands claw at a piece of paper.

“Oh Mycroft, oh god, Mycroft,” she screeches and clutching him in her arms she descends into an orgy of wild sobs against his chest.

“Mummy. What is it, Mummy?” Mycroft murmurs, holding her and stroking her hair to quiet her like a father would console his child.

“Oh Mycroft… the humiliation. The sheer cheeky effrontery… Never before…”

“Mummy.” Guiding her towards a chair, Mycroft forces her to sit by pushing gently on her shoulders. She flops down like a soft-cloth baby toy. “Now,” Mycroft cajoles her while he puts Sherlock’s glass of lemonade to her lips. “Drink some and then tell me what’s wrong.”

“Uh uh uh,” she wheezes but she takes a few sips of lemonade and appears to calm down a bit. Mycroft takes away the glass.

“Tell me,” he pats her hand.

“Mycroft, never… oh read for yourself,” Mummy begins and prods at Mycroft’s hand with the sheet of paper.

“What is it?” Mycroft’s eyes rove over the sentences. “It’s from your publisher…”

“Not any longer!” Mummy yells. “I’ll find another. Oh, I’ve never been so offended in my life. They’re the lowest of the low, riffraff, scoundrels! Katherine begged me to send the typescript, telling me they had been waiting for so long. And now… how could she… If only Sherlock were still alive. They would never have dared treat me…”

Mycroft places the letter on the table, smoothing out the creases with his fingers. “But Mummy,” he interrupts her. “You agreed you wouldn’t send off the manuscript until I’d had a chance to read it. You gave me your word.” He sounds heartbroken. Sherlock picks up a chair and places it next to the one Mummy is sitting on. Nodding his head in acknowledgement Mycroft seats himself beside Mummy and makes to pick up her hand. With a snarl she snatches it out of his grasp.

“Don’t have the bloody nerve,” she snaps. “Speaking to your own mother like that. How… how… oh… How could she do this to me? She wrote me, assuring me they would publish, she couldn’t wait to have a look at it and now… Oh, such treason.” Flinging herself forwards she starts crying uncontrollably, tugging at the skirt of her dress to bring it up against her face. Her thin shoulder blades heave with the effort and Mycroft pats at them tentatively while cooing soft sounds of reassurance. All this gets him is a sharp rise of the pitch of her squeals, until she resembles nothing so much as wounded animal howling in pain and misery.

From behind the safety of Mycroft’s back, Sherlock regards her, struggling with aversion at her blatant display of woe. So he was right when he surmised she locked herself into her study every day to write nothing but nonsense not fit to be published. Mycroft suspected the same, obviously, and offered to read the manuscript of the study for her. After that gentle warning she should have known better than to send off the typescript without giving Mycroft a chance to look at it first, and now the damage has been done. How stupid and wilfully ignorant of her.

Mummy’s cries haven’t abated during the last minute and she’s clinging to Mycroft’s hands so hard now her nails almost draw blood from the back of his hands.

“I’ll go and find Nanny,” Sherlock whispers, reasoning Nanny will be better at placating Mummy than Mycroft.

“Good thinking, Sherlock,” his brother throws him a quick smile. Sherlock dashes inside, glad to be doing something, _anything_ and with the chance to put some distance between himself and the frightening presence of his mother.

He runs up the stairs and onwards to Mummy’s room. “Nanny!” he shouts. “Nanny!” Inside his mother’s room he hears the heavy crash of a large object falling on the floor.

“Nanny,” Sherlock bursts into the room to find Nanny hunched over Mummy’s jewellery box lying open on the floor, the necklaces and rings and bangles in a trashed heap around it.

“Sherlock,” Nanny scolds. “Look what you made me do. What is the entire ruckus for then?”

“It’s Mummy, didn’t you hear her? She’s very upset and she’s outside with Mycroft and you must come and calm her.”

“Valerie? Oh no. I did hear something but I reckoned it was Mary having a go at Brenda because those two arrived in a foul mood this morning. What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Nanny is already wringing her hands, bracing herself to hear about the next outrage her darling has committed.

“What’s wrong?” he spits. “The same thing that’s always wrong. She did something stupid and now others get the blame for it.”

“Sherlock! Hold your tongue right now. I ought to wash your mouth with soap for speaking about your Mummy like that. How dare you?”

She grabs his arm and shakes it hard, displeasure distorting the usually placid lines of her face. “Now bring me to her.”

“Come on then.” He grabs her hand and starts pulling, shunting her gaze. In that moment he feels an intense dislike towards her for always defending his mother, even though she is proving time and again to be a stark raving mad lunatic. He won’t do any more beating around the bush whenever he thinks of her. His mother is crazy, off her rocker, as mad as a March hare, high up with the bats in the belfry, gone bananas and he doesn’t give a hoot, and if Nanny wishes to ignore what everyone can see that’s _her_ problem. 

Together they hasten down the corridor to the stairway. They’re already more than halfway down the steps, past the landing, when Nanny gropes at the pocket of her apron.

“My lavender water,” she croaks. “I don’t have any lavender water on me. Quick, Sherlock, go back to Mummy’s room and get some. There’s a big bottle in her bathroom and you can siphon some off into one of the small flasks you’ll find in the cupboard. Hurry!”

She scurries down the rest of the steps while he turns and darts back up the stairs. In the bathroom he finds the bottle of lavender water straight away but the cupboard is an enormous affair with lots of drawers and Nanny hasn’t explained which drawer holds the flasks. He starts with the top ones but they contain nothing but towels and washcloths. The next ones are filled with huge stacks of Nanny’s soap and toiletries but no flasks. Slamming them shut with increasing impatience, he jerks savagely at the handle of the next drawer. It slides out of the cupboard and falls to the floor with a deafening bang. He manages to jump aside just in time to avoid it crushing his foot. 

“Damn!” he yells and kicks the drawer, causing even more of the contents to spill over the floor. The drawer is filled with boxes, dozens of boxes made of stiff white paper, some of them draped with artistic swathes of soft pastel colours. He starts picking them up, grumbling at Nanny for not instructing him properly, at himself for not being more careful and at Mummy most of all for causing such a commotion. And what are all these boxes for anyway? He glares at the box he’s picked up just then. He turns it around and reads the bright blue lettering on the side: _Normison_. Three blister packs of small pink pills fall out when he opens the box. He opens another box that says: _Haldol_. More pills but these are bigger and white. What can Mummy want with so many pills? There must be fifty boxes at least. 

Reminding himself he was sent up by Nanny to fetch her lavender water, he throws the rest of the boxes into the drawer and decides to come back later for a more extensive exploration. 

The final drawer holds some of the flasks. He fills one with the lavender water, screws on the cap and sprints off.

Outside on the terrace, Nanny sits rocking Mummy’s sagging form in her arms. Mycroft still holds onto Mummy’s hand.

“At last,” Nanny exclaims. “What took you so long?”

“You didn’t tell me which drawer,” pants Sherlock. 

“You did well, Sherlock,” Mycroft says warmly, easing the flask out of Sherlock’s hand. He splashes some liquid onto a napkin and offers it to Nanny who starts dabbing Mummy’s face and throat with it, while murmuring soothing nonsense over her head. 

Having played his part, Sherlock slumps down in a chair. His mind gallops up the stairs back to Mummy’s bathroom and those intriguing pills. What does she want them for? You take pills when you are in pain. Mrs Norton gives him an aspirin when he complains of a horrible headache, though more often than not she tells him she won’t because, and he can hear her sharp voice in his head: “pills are bad for you. Put a cold wet cloth on your forehead; that will help. Or better, just don’t think about it and it will go away.”

Is Mummy in pain that often then? Does her head hurt continuously and is that why she needs so many pills? Or has she some other disease? Well, she’s mad but is madness a disease? And if so, can you take a pill that cures it? He casts a quick glance in the direction of his mother, draped against Nanny like an exhausted corpse. If that’s the reason she’s taking those pills they aren’t working, that’s for certain. He wants nothing better right now than to snake back again to Mummy’s bathroom and pilfer some boxes to have a good look at them.

“Has something like this happened recently, Nanny?” Mycroft asks. Fingers clasped behind his back he appears to be observing a pair of jackdaws strutting over the turf in perfect ownership of the grass. 

“No, of course not or I would have contacted you,” Nanny flares up. “Really, Mycroft.”

Ignoring the piqued tone of her answer, Mycroft pushes on with a twisted mouth. “Hasn’t she been restless, lately? More absent minded, perhaps? I thought she was a little distracted when we arrived yesterday.” 

“No! Or… maybe… well, yes.” Nanny wavers. “I don’t know. She was fine and then two weeks ago she became distracted suddenly. Didn’t you Valerie? Darling?”

With her free hand she strokes Mummy’s face but their mother remains slouched against her. “You’d better help me bring her up to bed.”

“Yes, of course. So two weeks ago she sent off her typescript to her publisher, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but what has that got to do with…”

“Nothing Nanny,” Mycroft assures her. “I was just checking. What do you think? Will we need to call the doctor?”

“Let’s put her to bed first,” decides Nanny.

“All right.” Mycroft kneels next to the chair that’s holding Mummy and eases his arm beneath her knees.

“Put her arm around my neck,” he instructs Nanny.

“Do you think you can manage?” she asks doubtfully.

Mycroft grabs a hold of Mummy’s ribcage and holding her tight against his torso raises himself. 

“She doesn’t weigh much,” Mycroft says quietly. He looks incredibly sad; his lips twitch a little. “Hold the curtain aside for me, Sherlock.”

Carrying his load, Mycroft walks inside with Nanny close on his heels. Sherlock stays behind on the terrace with the putrid remains of a peaceful summer morning strewn on the table. Cook’s delicious strawberry tartlets are sagging in the heat. Just looking at them sets his stomach turning. 

***

That evening, Mycroft settles himself on the terrace with a big sheaf of papers and starts reading.

The next evening he reads some more.

On the fifth evening he reaches the last sheet. After he’s finished reading he sits with his head buried in his palms for a long time. Sherlock closes his own book and lays it on the table. 

Dusk is already crowding in on them when Mycroft groans loudly and lifts his head. Blinking rapidly he focus on Sherlock with glistening eyes. A single tear clinging to his lower right eyelashes betrays his naked despair. The next minute the tear is gone and Mycroft’s face has rearranged itself into an expression of composure. Sherlock feels his breath hitch in his throat as he watches his brother repack himself. 

“Mycroft? Is anything amiss?” he has to ask. 

Mycroft smiles at him and pats his hand. “Yes,” he says. “You know there is. A lot is very much amiss.” 

He pushes back his chair and raises himself.

“I’ll go write to Mummy’s publisher now to apologise to them on her behalf,” he says. “They were very kind to her, Sherlock. It’s clear they still esteem her for what she once was.” He draws a tired hand over his face. “Such a waste. Don’t stay outside for too long. You’ll spoil your eyes.”

“Do you want me to come and sit with you?”

“No. No, I’ve got to do this on my own. It’s…” a wry expression tugs at the corner of his mouth and he sighs. “The scales have dropped from my eyes, Sherlock. I told myself I had accepted she was ill but now, in hindsight I realise I hadn’t. Not really. Hope is what keeps us humble mortals going but to hope foolishly, to ignore all the evidence that’s right there in front of one’s eyes, that’s… Please, forgive me Sherlock for I understand now what you grasped a long time ago.”

“Mycroft, I…” Sherlock starts to reassure Mycroft but falters as he guards his brother’s steely bearing. 

“Don’t,” Mycroft raises a dismissive hand. “Just don’t. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast. Good night.”

After gathering the papers he turns and enters the house, his back taut and forbidding. Half a minute later the light from Daddy’s study falls in a yellow quadrangle onto the bushes in the rose garden.

***

For the rest of the holiday, Mummy keeps to her room. Sherlock suspects Mycroft sits with her during the afternoons when Sherlock is away for his violin lessons, even though he always finds Mycroft out in the garden upon his return. They don’t speak of Mummy, nor does Mycroft urge Sherlock to go and sit with her.

After some deliberation, Mycroft puts off Michael’s visit. Bearing Mr Talbot’s advice in mind, Sherlock tells Mycroft he’s sorry his friend can’t come. He does his best to sound genuine and appear properly sympathising.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Mycroft corrects him. “I’ll see him in another week. It’s better this way, Sherlock.”

_Fine._ Sherlock nods. He sneaks up to his room to check in the mirror what went wrong while he delivered his little commiserating speech to Mycroft. He’d practiced very hard at it. In the end he determines it must be the slightly upward turn of his right eyebrow as he delivers the last line. No one would have noticed it, no one but Mycroft that is.

Nanny is very tearful the few times Sherlock asks after Mummy’s condition but as she doesn’t bring up the subject of him actually looking in on Mummy as well, he suspects his mother is in a bad way. 

Mummy doesn’t ask to see him the day he leaves for school again.

What irks him the most in the whole situation is his lost opportunity to have a really good look at that drawer.

***

The class is still settling down, unfamiliar limbs that have grown impossibly lanky over the summer readjusting themselves to the chairs and desks that seem ludicrously small all of a sudden, when Mr Fallon clears his throat.

“Boys, boys. Calm down, please. The Headmaster can arrive any minute now. He wishes to speak to you.”

The boys grumble. “What about?” one of them shouts.

“Will you behave yourself, Wolsley?” Mr Fallon corrects him. “You can raise your finger if you want to ask something and at least add ‘Sir’ at the end of your question. Please Wolsley, I know we haven’t managed to teach you anything in this school the past few years but do you need to make it so blatantly obvious?”

Everyone laughs. That moment the Headmaster steps into the room, his entrance smothering the merriment as effectively as a blanket thrown over a fire.

“Mr Fallon, boys.” The Headmaster nods at them and is greeted with a sullen silence from the class. 

“Headmaster. They’re all yours.” Mr Fallon gestures towards the rows of boys and quietly seats himself behind his desk, whence he engages in an elaborate study of the ceiling. 

In his seat in the back row, Sherlock sits with the prescribed folded arms but he’s let his head drop so he won’t have to look at the hated figure that now towers in front of the blackboard.

The Headmaster scrapes his throat. “Boys!” he bellows and then, slightly less loud, “boys.” He tugs at his glasses, folds them and stashes them in his right hand jacket pocket with short impatient gestures.

“I wanted to speak to you for a moment because, as you’re all no doubt are perfectly aware, this is a very important year for you. From the time you’ve entered this school we’ve demanded you give nothing but your best and in return the school has given you the best any institution has to offer.”

He regards the class with a fierce dislike.

“During the past few years we’ve helped you to grow into the boys you are now. Your parents are proud of you, society can be proud of you. Just remember you couldn’t have done this on your own. Remember the institution that educated you. This year you’ll have the chance to show your gratitude and repay your teachers and the school in kind.”

In front of Sherlock, Pleasance shuffles his feet. Sherlock bends his head even lower to hide the look of irritation that must be evident on his face.

“You’ll be doing your exams this year and I want this school to end in the top three of primary education again. This school has dominated the charts for the last two decades straight and I expect you will all give your utmost to preserve that enviable position.”

While speaking, the Headmaster’s left hand has been fumbling in his pocket and now he whisks out a folded sheet of paper.

“Some of you have been doing exceptionally well the past few years, even when compared to the high standards of this school,” he drones on. “So I strongly suggest you profit from the fact you’ve these inspiring comrades in your midst and endeavour to profit from their example. I’ll give you their names though you probably already know whom I’m referring to…”

Next to him Sherlock can feel Edward’s silent gasp. His fingers dig deep into the flesh of his upper arm in quiet sympathy.

“Sherlock Holmes, Nicholas Taunton and Edward Winchester,” the Headmaster intones. “Follow their example and do this school proud.”

***

The renewed bout of bullying is relentless, endlessly inventive and secretive. Warburton and Pleasance appear to be determined to make Edward’s life hell on earth while they still have the chance.

One day, Sherlock walks into the shower room to hear muffled whimpering and whinnying laughter escape from the last stall. He tiptoes near to inspect what’s happening and nearly doubles over in nausea at the sight of a naked Edward sprawled on the floor with Warburton and Pleasance towering above him, their zips open and peeing over their victim.

“You… you… You’re sick, both of you,” he manages before rendering them both incapacitated with a few sharp blows. He yanks Edward off the floor and over towards another shower stall, shoves him under the showerhead and turns on the water to send the cleansing liquid cascading down over Edward’s body.

“Shit, Holmes,” Warburton complains. “We we’re just having a little fun. He’s nothing but a little shit. Why you bother with him is beyond me, honestly.” He rubs his jawline reflectively. An impressive bruise will develop in just a few hours.

“Yeah,” Pleasance adds. “He should be glad we weren’t tossing off on top of him. He definitely deserves that, seeing as he’s nothing but a wanker. He’d probably enjoy it though.”

“Just go away, would you?” Sherlock yells at them. “Go away or I’ll report the two of you to Mrs Norton, I swear.”

He turns his back on them in profound disgust, certain they won’t dare attack him because he’s quicker than the two of them and half a second later the door falls shut behind them. In a corner he detects Edward’s clothes. They’re clean at least, but there’s a huge rip in one of the shirt’s front panels.

“Here,” he hands Edward a towel that is accepted wordlessly. Edward dries off and starts putting on his clothes. His movements are short and decisive, indicative of a quiet dignity.

“You really ought to report them,” Sherlock says.

“Yes,” comes Edward’s muffled reply. “I know I should. But I won’t do that, you know that as well as I.”

He ties his shoelaces and raises himself from his kneeling position on the floor.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he says stiffly and walks out.

***

“Brain chemistry,” Mr Fallon repeats. “Ahem. I’m afraid that’s a bit out of my league, Sherlock. Well, it’s chemistry of course but it’s a field of science they’re only starting to explore properly, as far as I can tell. And well, I suppose a man can’t be interested in everything. But you know what, a friend of mine is a doctor, a surgeon actually, I’ll ask him to ask around on your behalf at the hospital where he’s working whether anyone can recommend a book to get you started.”

***

“Now what I want you to do,” Mr Steward begins, turning away from the blackboard to regard them, “is this. Check both the newspapers you’ve been given and write down the average number of words in the sentences for each paper. Determine the amount of space devoted to various subjects such as politics, foreign news, industry and economy, amusement. You can make this division as detailed as you like. As you can see I’ve written down a large number of words on the blackboard. See whether you can find them and how often in each paper. You’ll have one half hour to go through them. We’ll discuss your findings afterwards.”

The class is taken over by the sound of rustling newspapers. Mr Steward walks between the rows of desks to where Sherlock is hunched over his paper.

“Look what came for me in the morning’s post today,” he addresses Sherlock. “Robert Fagles’ translation of _Oidipous epi Kolōnō_. I thought we could work our way backwards from his translation to the Greek original.”

Sherlock lifts his head to stare at his teacher with unseeing eyes. He hasn’t heard a word Mr Steward has said to him. He can’t prevent it, even should he have wished it, his gaze falls back onto the article he was reading. The words have gripped his mind and dragged him out of the classroom, through the corridors and out of the building, over the lawn past the big yew tree and on to the pool house. 

_Air, the boy must have been gasping desperately for air. Like Sherlock did._

He doesn’t want to move his hand up to his chest to feel whether he’s still breathing but he finds he does, all the same, his hand ignoring the commands from his brain. His brain that was closing in on him then, instructing him to fight his attacker, to _breathe_.

_He needs air._ His lungs are burning, burning with the need of air and now the feeling has spread itself in his chest and his heart is burning as well. _He needs air._ His heart is burning out of him. His body is still putting up a feeble fight but it’s useless. He’s going to die. _He needs air._

That’s when Daddy came. And all the colours, the beautiful colours. Did this boy’s Daddy come as well? Sherlock hopes so for the boy, for Carl Powers. He remembers everything turned better when Daddy floated beneath him and opened his arms. The desperate need to gasp for breath fled from his body then.

The pool was full, people watching but nobody noticed when Carl lay struggling in the water, he must have been struggling, Sherlock remembers struggling. But no, he was very still. How can…?

“Sherlock! Answer me.” He scoots up out of his thoughts and gasps at the shock of discovering Mr Steward’s face just inches away from his own.

“What…” he gasps. 

“Exactly,” Mr Steward rejoins. “You were miles away, Sherlock. Do try to pay attention when I’m speaking to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes wander over to the article again, inexorably. 

“Sherlock?” Mr Steward queries and then his gaze follows Sherlock’s. Out of the collar of his shirt a flush of embarrassment flashes up and paints his face a dark cherry-red.

“My boy, Sherlock, please,” he stutters. “I’m so sorry. My sincere apologies for my mistake, You shouldn’t have been given this paper. I see now why you didn’t react.”

His hand pats Sherlock on the shoulder in an awkward gesture of sympathy while the other reaches for the paper. 

“I suggest you give me the paper and go to your room to regain your composure. Have Mrs Norton heat some milk for you or something, grab yourself together for your next lesson,” he blabs. Sherlock can feel the hand on his shoulder shaking a little. His own hand holds the paper flat on the desk, resisting Mr Steward’s feeble tug.

“Thank you, Mr Steward,” he answers. “That won’t be necessary. I’m all right. I’d like to read the article again.”

“I don’t know whether that would be wise,” doubts Mr Steward. “Wouldn’t you rather have a look at Mr Fagles’ translation? We spoke about it last Wednesday, remember?”

“Yes sir, I do. I’ll start on it during the next lesson but now I’d rather read the article again if you don’t mind. I’m fine, sir, truly. I can read this and I would really like to.”

Mr Steward observes him closely and Sherlock settles his most determined and fearless look on his face.

“All right,” Mr Steward concedes. “I trust you.”

Sherlock nods to confirm his teacher can, indeed, trust him and Mr Steward turns on his heels and walks to the front of the classroom again.

***

Carl Powers was lively and excited when he entered the swimming pool. He had trained hard and was confident he was going to win the contest. His parents had driven him over, happy to see their son perform and they’d brought along Carl’s younger sister as well on what they wanted to be a family outing. They left Carl at the entrance of the changing rooms to seat themselves on the tribune.

Carl started well, putting up a good record right from the beginning. After the fourth turn he started slowing down, his movements sluggish. After the fifth turn, in which he bumped his head to the side, he was dead.

The autopsy revealed there wasn’t that much water in his lungs; the pathologist was quite confident Carl hadn’t drowned. The best the man could come up with was a reaction to the chlorine in the pool. Samples proved the chlorine content of the water to be quite high, as was further proven by the red and hurtful eyes the other participants had been complaining about.

The possibility of Carl having dosed himself with pills was also looked into – here an extra paragraph was inserted into the article in which the writer expounded on the worrying growing addiction of teenagers to various stimuli of a pharmaceutical nature. The harangue strengthens Sherlock’s resolve to investigate Mummy’s drawer at the earliest possible opportunity – but none were found among Carl’s clothes, in a search of his room or in his locker at school.

Oddly the article doesn’t mention Carl’s shoes, which would be the obvious place to hide any contraband substances Carl might have been carrying. Maybe the journalist who wrote the article forgot to mention them. The overheated tone of the article shows he must have been rather excited with the story. 

Sherlock sighs. This newspaper clearly isn’t a very good one. It’s one of a number of publications contrived for the lower-middle to lower classes; one of those papers Mycroft refers to as ‘rags’. Sherlock looks at the screaming headline that’s shouting murder at him, over an article that reports a tragic swimming accident. He ponders the lurid language of the article again, designed to strike terror into the reader’s heart.

He pushes the paper away in disgust. The next moment he’s quietly tearing out the article.

***

“Police. How can we help you?”

“Hello. This is Sherlock Holmes speaking. I read in the newspaper about the boy that was found in the swimming pool, Carl Powers.”

“What? You need to be more specific. What are you calling for?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I read an article in the Daily Mirror of the fourteenth of October about a swimming accident which occurred in London on the tenth. The victim was a boy named Carl Powers.”

“Yes. And?”

“The article mentioned the boy’s clothes were in a locker at the swimming pool. But it didn’t mention his shoes.”

“Yes. And?”

“I thought that might be an important detail.”

“How old are you, Sherlock?”

“I’m twelve years old. I will be thirteen in a little under three months.”

“Thought so. Look here, Sherlock. You’re wasting precious time and blocking a line with your silly little prank. If you wanted us to put credence to your story you should have begun by choosing a less silly name. I’d like to warn you we can trace any calls we get and your parents will be fined heavily if you try to contact us again to play your little prank. Go do your homework or play outside, would you?”

The click of the receiver being replaced on the other end of the line hits his eardrum. For a moment he sits staring at the receiver in astonishment.

“Well?” Mrs Norton asks. She’s standing beside him with her hands on her sharp hips. He gazes up at her, still a little dazed.

“They think I’m playing a game.”

“Really now? It was a man, I suppose. Insufferable and stupid as most of them are. Do you want me to phone them for you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, thank you, Mrs Norton. Maybe I had better write them a letter. Then they can see I’m serious about this.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea. They’ll have to turn over your observations while answering you. Give them your brother’s Oxford telephone number as well so they can check you aren’t just some annoying teenager trying to smartass the police.”

Sherlock frowns. “They deserve to be smartassed if that’s the way they handle all telephone calls.”

***

Ten days later he receives his answer. When he opens the envelope a balloon and a novelty key ring with a little plastic police hat fall out. These he ignores for the accompanying letter. The average length of the sentences adds to ten words. He detects four grammar mistakes and his name is misspelt two times. In the letter a Sgt Barnes thanks him heartily for his observations before going on to suggest he watches too much telly and should leave the important jobs to grown-ups. 

With a snarl of disgusted fury he tears the insulting paper to shreds and throws them in the bin together with the stupid balloon and the key ring.

***

“Shall I write to the parents?”

“No, Sherlock,” Mrs Norton answers him, shock twitching her face. “Think of those poor people. It’s hard enough they have to deal with the police. Who knows what unwanted attention they may already be suffering from. Cases like these always attract weird people.”

“That’s what the police thinks I am, don’t they? A weirdo kid with an overly excited mind from watching too much television.”

“Yes, well. Maybe you’d better let it rest now, Sherlock. I do agree with you it’s odd the shoes weren’t in the locker but there’s nothing else you can do about it. You’ve given it your best. Hopefully one day one of them will wake up and decide to follow up on your suggestion.”

***

Mr Talbot appears to agree with Mrs Norton, his carefully constructed sentences indicating he concurs with Sherlock’s assessment of the average police officer even though his words mildly chastise Sherlock for his lack of respect for ‘a venerable institution’.

John tells him he’s sure Sherlock is right and goes on to bemoan the loss of one of the 'Louise Bonne of Jersey' pear trees to European canker.

Mycroft suggests they discuss the case during the Christmas holiday. As Mummy hasn’t fully recovered yet he proposes Sherlock spends the holiday with him in Oxford. The letter is full of apologies: for Mycroft robbing Sherlock of the opportunity to spend time with Nanny and Cook, for denying Sherlock the chance to play his violin with and for Mr Mancini in person, and even for curtailing Sherlock’s interaction with John. However, the tone of the letter indicates Mycroft isn’t open to discussing the choice of Sherlock’s holiday quarters. This is a huge disappointment as the book Mr Fallon has turned up with at the suggestion of his doctor friend is absolutely _fascinating_ and Sherlock longs for the chance of a proper – scientific – look at those pills of Mummy. Now he will have to wait until spring at least.

***

Mycroft’s rooms are tiny but neat. He’s very proud of them as they’re situated in the very heart of the college. Sherlock’s heart flutters in his chest at the thought that Daddy walked these grounds once.

In the mornings, Mycroft rakes up the fire in the cosy sitting room and they breakfast together in front of the small mantelpiece with tea and toast and marmalade from the jars Cook sends Mycroft, together with her preserves and biscuits. The Christmas pudding she’s prepared is sitting in its tin on the sideboard.

Together they roam the streets and colleges that are empty of students, just the townspeople and university staff hurrying about. In the park along the river they play a game in which one of them points out a person seated on one of the benches and the other has to deduce what that person has been doing with his or her day so far. Of course, people are wrapped up in coats and scarves and gloves and rather heavy boots, depriving them both of a hoard of tell-tale little details but those don’t obscure the tired sad wrinkles around someone’s eyes. Furthermore, the way one ties the sash of one’s coat does give away rather a lot about the mood someone was in and consequently the prevailing circumstances at the time the coat was put on.

The holiday would be perfect but for the quarrel they have considering the Carl Powers case. Mycroft sits listening with his fingers tented in front of his mouth while Sherlock informs him about reading the article and his subsequent actions. 

“Don’t you think you overreacted?” he suggests. “To read about this boy that drowned must have struck a rather personal note.” He leans forwards in his chair and touches Sherlock’s knee. “I understand.”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock flares up. “You’ve missed the whole point. This isn’t about me; it was initially but not any longer. This is about the incompetence of the police.”

“Don’t say that,” Mycroft corrects him sharply.

“ _What?_ Why ever not? You’ve been going on about those incompetent flunkees that botched up the investigation of Daddy’s death. So why can’t I…”

“That’s a different matter entirely,” Mycroft cuts him short. “Daddy’s death isn’t investigated by the police but by our secret services and, as I’ve explained to you before, important people who wield far too much power are rather intent on keeping their role in the planting of that bomb a secret. I am making progress, Sherlock, at too slow a pace, but still it’s progress and one day the culprits will be locked behind bars. The only reason I haven’t spoken about the investigation to you is because the subject obviously upsets you so much.”

He inches himself forward in his chair to grab Sherlock’s hands. 

“Sherlock, you must see the death of this boy can’t compare to Daddy’s. A child dying in a swimming accident, why would the police try to cover something up? What would be their motive? Of course the shoes were there in the locker where the boy left them. You read too much into a line written down by an inaccurate journalist pressed for time to churn out an exciting story. Have you got any idea how many letters the police receives every day from pranksters who just want to upset and annoy the police and obstruct the grindings of the wheels of justice?”

“Yes, no! I don’t know. It must have been obvious my letter wasn’t one of those.”

“Forget it, Sherlock. Forget the incident. It’s not important. Even if what you imply is true, if the boy has been murdered, would the parents be any better off, having to live with that knowledge? Would it make a difference to them?”

“It would mean justice would be done.”

“What is justice then?”

Sherlock thinks. “To separate the good people from the bad people?” he says at last.

The left hand corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirks up. “If we did that there would be no one left to run society.”

With those words Mycroft sits back in his chair and picks up his book, signalling the discussion is closed. Sherlock glares at him over the edge of his own book but his put-upon sighs are just ignored.

“Interesting reading material?” Mycroft enquires after some minutes.

“Yes. It’s about the brain, how it makes us into what we are.”

“I see,” Mycroft murmurs. “And about how it can become ill and change us into what we would rather not be. _I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity._ Thus said the great writer and wrote on to delight us with his stories of pure, unaltered horror. Just imagine what it must be like for her, Sherlock. When she’s lucid and realises she’s lost days, weeks at a time.”

“Yes. But you see, it’s all a question of neurons, and their interaction or lack of it. So, it’s like she broke an arm or her leg and all that needs to be done is to find the right chemistry to put her brain into working order again.”

Mycroft smiles. “If only our problem was as simple as that. What a tender world that would be.”

***

Such a pity that annoying Michael has to pop in every now and then. One morning, Sherlock is sent out to go fend for himself in the library for a few hours and he’s given money to buy himself a hot chocolate in a café. Inwardly, he’s fuming with indignation. He knows exactly what Mycroft and Michael are up to the minute the door to Mycroft’s rooms falls closed behind his back. 

_‘To make love.’ Bah._

***

Five months later, Mycroft sits smiling and looking up at him, clapping his hands. The Headmaster has kept extolling on Sherlock’s virtues, enumerating in exhausting detail all the triumphs that have marked Sherlock’s career at the school and now ‘our worthy pupil is off to do another institution proud’. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stomps off the stage the moment the Headmaster relinquishes his hand. He waits for Mycroft next to the exit of the hall.

“My suitcases are in the corridor in the dorm house,” he informs Mycroft the moment his brother walks up to him.

“Good. We’ll get them after the supper.”

“I’d rather we go now, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, we can’t. It wouldn’t be proper. Besides, don’t you want to say goodbye to your teachers and your dorm mates at least?”

“I’ve already said goodbye to Mrs Norton, Mr Fallon, Mr Steward, Mr Robinson and Mr Willoughby and the rest don’t interest me. I couldn’t care less about Warburton and Pleasance, they’re a pair of nasty bullies and I’d rather I’d never met them. I wished Edward all the best. Can we please go home, Mycroft? I long to see the people I _do_ care about. I just want to be home.”

“That’s… I had hoped…” The corners of Mycroft’s mouth droop.

“I know you did your best, Mycroft. Can we go now?”

***


	5. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock counts the number of boxes of these particular pills. There are eleven of them. He pushes the slip of paper into the breast pocket of his shirt, together with one strip of the pills. He needs to think about this. Slowly he closes the box and deposits it in the drawer again. 
> 
> Then he reaches for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for not updating earlier. RL got in the way.

Mycroft still owes him for solving that rather embarrassing Indian case for him, so Sherlock elects to refrain from acknowledging his brother’s entry into their living room.

“Thank you for showing me in, my dear Mrs Hudson.” Hearing Mycroft’s smooth tones Sherlock throws himself onto his other side in disgust, yanking at the fleur-de-lys cushion under his head in a vain search for a comfortable position.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John greets him. “What brings you here?”

“Nothing of importance, John. I just happened to pass by and decided on the spur of the moment to pay the two of you a visit. Just to see how you are faring. Ah, how interesting…” 

Sherlock guesses this is the moment his brother spots the rows of hundreds of slides covering the kitchen table, three-quarters of the counter tops and most of the floorboards with some neatly outlined paths to enable John to do the cooking and washing-up and grant Sherlock access to his bedroom. He smiles to himself.

“It appears the two of you are happily ensconced in another experiment,” Mycroft concludes. “Allow me to offer you my most sincere condolences, John. However, you look quite well so I’ll assume I can safely drink whatever _you_ will prepare me in this permanent bio hazard. A cup of tea would do me perfectly fine, John.”

“Yeah,” John answers. “He promised it would be gone Friday next and I promised him it would be gone Saturday morning at one by the latest if it hadn’t and until that time I guess we’ll manage. He’s already taken me out to Angelo’s twice to make up for it.”

“I’m so very glad to hear that,” Mycroft murmurs. He checks Sherlock’s chair for any impurities and deposits his bottom into it, carefully hitching up the legs of his trousers first.

“You ought to be stern with him, John or he will walk all over you.” Mycroft casts a surreptitious glance in Sherlock’s direction and purses his lips. Sherlock glares at him openly. His brother checks whether his immaculate shirt cuffs are indeed immaculate and starts on an extensive study of the carpet pattern.

“We’re out of biscuits, I’m afraid,” John says after checking the tin. “I was sure we had some left but they all appear to have vanished overnight. I could hop out and run to the Tesco Express to get you some hobnobs, if you like?”

“Please don’t bother yourself on my account,” Mycroft answers lightly while accepting his mug out of John’s hands. “The news my dear little brother is actually eating, even if in doing so he is in danger of cutting his foot rather nastily on one of those slides, more than makes up for the lack of a biscuit with my tea.”

Upon hearing this Sherlock jerks himself up from the sofa with a snarl. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

From behind his mug Mycroft darts him a glance that’s all feigned innocence. 

“What do I want?” he repeats in a show of perplexity. “I want for nothing, Sherlock. Your admirable flatmate has just served me a passable cup of tea, better than the vile brew you choose to prepare for your guests. I must admit I do rather deplore your nocturnal nibbling of biscuits but on the other hand in doing so you’ve deprived yourself of the chance of another sarcastic remark on my weight. Besides, _Tesco_.” He wrinkles his nose and turns to direct himself to John in affable tones. “I could arrange for my patisserie to deliver here twice-weekly if you’d like to. You only need to say the word and I’ll have Anthea arrange it straightaway.”

To Sherlock’s deep relief John turns down the offer in his own inimitable nice-guy style. Mycroft urges, John refuses more firmly, together they go through the whole act of pressed-upon and declined munificence. In the end Mycroft concedes his defeat with the best grace he can muster. Grabbing his umbrella he lifts himself out of Sherlock’s chair.

“Thank you for your generous hospitality, John,” he breezes. “Best of luck with keeping the worst excesses of Sherlock’s antics in check. So long, Sherlock. I suppose I’ll see you at the Manze concert next week; obtaining those cards was rather a hardship.”

With a final twirl of his umbrella he steps out of the room.

“Right,” John says, once they’ve heard the thud of the front door falling shut. “What was all that about then?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and allows his body to collapse on the sofa again. “I haven’t the faintest,” he growls. “What does a moray do all day? He came to spy on us, I guess.”

John snorts. “Yeah, probably. Would you like me to run after him and make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

“You do whatever you have to do, John,” Sherlock sighs. He pulls his robe tighter around himself and resumes his study of the sickening colour of the sofa cushions. 

***

Sherlock peeks through the gap between the kitchen door and the door jamb and catches sight of Brenda who sits twiddling with a strand of her hair, projecting nothing so much as an air of profound boredom. He can’t see Mary and Cook, but he can hear their voices, raised in argument over some village scandal.

Nanny and Mummy have left early that morning for a day of shopping. At breakfast Mummy declared suddenly she’d love to have some flowery summer dresses. Mycroft sprang up at her words to telephone David and arrange for him to come collect Nanny and her and drive them to the station. After he seated himself again he proposed for Michael, Sherlock and he to make a tour of the surroundings in the new Rover coupé he bought a week ago. Sherlock declined straightaway, taking refuge behind the excuse of perfecting his preparations for his violin lesson. At his words, Michael gave him a glance of such gratitude Sherlock almost changed his mind but the idea of hours of solitude in which to snoop through Mummy’s drawers decided that brief inner argument.

Satisfied the women are too busy to pay any heed to his doings Sherlock tiptoes away down the corridor and creeps up the servant stairs. In his own room he starts the cassette recorder and the sound of him practising the Fuga of Bach’s third violin sonata fills the room. He shuts the door behind him and runs towards Mummy’s room. For a moment he contemplates locking the door but that would just look suspicious, he’ll just have to hide himself very well, should anyone enter it. 

In the bathroom he looks for a good hiding place and decides upon the big laundry basket where Nanny disposes of Mummy’s towels after she has enjoyed her bath. He throws the towels out of the basket onto the floor and steps into it. It’s a tight fit but it will do. He folds the towels as neatly as he can manage and stacks them onto the cupboard.

Not until after he has taken care of these initial preparations does he set his hand on the handle of the lowest right-side drawer. He pulls.

The drawer doesn’t budge.

He yanks at the handle again. There is no movement; the drawer must be locked. 

Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth to keep himself from shouting with frustration. To be so tantalisingly close to the coveted hoard of pills he’s been desiring to examine ever since he first chanced upon them, only to find himself thwarted by a stupid _lock_. Taking deep breaths he forces himself to relax. He knows he can open the lock if he manages to stay calm.

Why is the drawer locked anyway? He pushes the thought away as a useless line of inquiry for the time being. First he has to obtain the data, then he can start theorising. Between himself and the data in question is an obstacle. His first act must be to remove it.

On his knees with his eye close to the keyhole he drives his penknife into the lock and fiddles around tentatively, ears cocked for the click that will tell him he’s managed to spring the lever that slides the bolt into place. 

After what feels like ages, the sound of the bolt hitting home hits his eardrums. He lets go of the penknife, silently commanding it to stay put. Ever so carefully he slides the drawer out of its hole.

Neat rows of boxes blink up at him, even more then he remembers from last year. At random he chooses a box and opens it in search of the package insert. As he unfolds the slip of paper he goggles at the tiny print and the length of the text. He sends his eyes flying over the writing.

**NORMISON® 20 mg**

**COMPOSITION:**  
Chemically temazepam is known as  
7-chloro-1,3-dihydro-3-hydroxy-1-methyl-5-phenyl-2H-1,4-benzodiazepin-2-one.  
Pills contain or 20 mg **temazepam.**

**PRESERVATIVES:**  
Ethyl sodium parahydroxybenzoate 0,29% m/m  
Propyl sodium parahydroxybenzaoate 0,15% m/m

**PHARMACOLOGICAL CLASSIFICATION:**  
A 2.2 Sedative, hypnotic.

**PHARMACOLOGICAL ACTION:**  
– Benzodiazepines presumably exert their effects by binding to specific receptors at several sites within the central nervous system either by potentiating the effects of synaptic or presynaptic inhibition mediated by gamma-aminobutyric acid or by directly affecting the action potential generating mechanisms.  
– With multiple dosing steady state is obtained by the third day, and there is little or no accumulation of parent drug or metabolites.  
NORMISON (temazepam) is metabolised principally in the liver where most of the unchanged temazepam is directly conjugated to the glucuronide and excreted in the urine. Some temazepam is demethylated to oxazepam and eliminated as the glucuronide. The glucuronides of NORMISON (temazepam) have no demonstrable central nervous system activity –

**INDICATIONS:**  
NORMISON (temazepam) is indicated for use as a hypnotic or night-time sedative in adults. The prolonged administration of NORMISON (temazepam) is not recommended. –

**CONTRA-INDICATIONS:**  
Idiosyncrasy to benzodiazepine derivatives. Insomnia due to depression.

**WARNINGS:**  
Patients should be advised that their tolerance for alcohol and other central nervous system depressants will be diminished and these substances should either be eliminated or given in reduced dosage in the presence of temazepam.  
Withdrawal from the medication should be gradual. As with other sedative-hypnotics when treatment is suddenly withdrawn, a temporary increase of sleep disturbance can occur after long term daily use of temazepam.  
It is recommended that the need for continued therapy of NORMISON (temazepam) be determined periodically.

**DOSAGE AND DIRECTIONS FOR USE:**  
The recommended adult dose in 10 mg to 30 mg –

**SIDE-EFFECTS AND SPECIAL PRECAUTIONS:  
SIDE-EFFECTS**  
The side-effects most commonly encountered are drowsiness and oversedation. – Depression of mood and affect, disorientation or confusion, lethargy and ataxia. – Paradoxical reactions such as acute hyperexcitable states with rage may occur. If these occur temazepam should be discontinued.  
Transient amnesia or memory impairment may occur.   
**SPECIAL PRECAUTIONS:**  
–

**Abuse and Dependence:**  
Abuse:  
There is a potential for abuse.  
Addiction-prone individuals such as drug addicts and alcoholics, should be under careful surveillance when receiving NORMISON (temazepam) because of the predisposition of such patients to habituation and dependence.  
Dependence:  
The use of benzodiazepines may lead to dependence. – Accordingly, temazepam should be terminated gradually to help avoid occurrence of withdrawal symptoms.

**STORAGE DIRECTIONS:**  
Store in a cool (below 25°C), dry place. KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN.

Panting, Sherlock lowers the slip of paper. Inside his chest, his heart is fluttering like a bee trapped behind a window, throwing itself against the glass again and again in its attempts to reach the luring rose that tantalises it with its delightful colour only half a metre away. Swallowing this stuff can’t be very healthy, at least not if one consumes a lot of it.

Sherlock counts the number of boxes of these particular pills. There are eleven of them. He pushes the slip of paper into the breast pocket of his shirt, together with one strip of the pills. He needs to think about this. Slowly he closes the box and deposits it in the drawer again. 

Then he reaches for another.

***

“Are you ever depressed, John?”

They’re on their knees next to Daddy’s grave, ripping out the weeds that have sprung up again over the course of a mere three weeks. At Sherlock’s question, John’s busy hands fall quiet.

“What a strange thing to ask,” he says at last. “Where has this come from?”

“Oh, I’ve been reading this book.”

“I see.” John sits back on his haunches. “Weird books you read, Sherlock, but well, I think I can see why you would. You never say so, but… now you’re older maybe you’re afraid…?” He hesitates, the tendons beneath the shrivelled skin of his throat working strenuously. His gaze swivels down to the ground and he starts attacking the weeds again.

“Afraid of what, John?”

“You mustn’t be, there’s no reason to,” John says in a voice that’s all suppressed anger. He tears at the offending stalks with great energy. “She’s always been like that, unstable, except when Sherlock was still alive, your Daddy that is, she had every reason to try and hide it. She’s a good actress and she _did_ love him, she was mad about him.”

“I know, John. Let’s not talk about the likeliness of me having inherited my mother’s insanity. I was asking about you.”

He’s taken fourteen different strips of pills from the drawer together with their package inserts. During the past week he’s been reading the inserts at night, hidden beneath the covers with his torch. As far as he can see, they fall into two categories: those designed to sedate and those developed to stimulate. As his mother is taking both kinds of pills simultaneously, ordinary reason suggests she ought to be the most stable individual in his acquaintance.

More than anything else he would like to discuss his findings with someone. 

Briefly, Sherlock has considered showing the blister packs to Mycroft but he dismissed the idea straightaway. Either Mycroft is already fully aware of their presence and Mummy’s addiction to various substances or he isn’t because he doesn’t _want_ to be. Besides, Mycroft would chide him for obtaining the pills by stealing them. Maybe he’s the one who instructed Nanny to keep the drawer locked at all times. Surely he has inspected Mummy’s chamber most thoroughly, when his eyes were forced open last summer. He must have found the pills as well. 

Still, there is a difference to silently acknowledging they exist and openly admitting the fact. Sherlock isn’t sure whether Mycroft is prepared yet to concede their mother depends on a cocktail of heavy ‘medicine’ in order to barely function.

The mutual aloofness between Sherlock and _Mummy_ allows for a more objective view on his part, as Mycroft himself has owned. This means Sherlock can’t discuss his findings with Mycroft; they would only lead to Mycroft being upset and bitter and induce him to chide Sherlock for sneaking.

Everyone else has been through his mind. He’s thought of bringing up the subject of the pills with Nanny, but she’s too attached to Mummy. Cook would refuse to listen to him and tell him it’s none of her business, her job is to feed the household and not to concern herself with the dealings of its occupants. Mr Mancini would only mutter “told you so” and start a rant about how she’d corrupted his Sherlock, the most wonderful pupil he’d ever had. If only he could meet and _talk_ to Mr Talbot but he already knows the answer to another request for an interview. So finally he’s settled upon John, reasoning that John has never spoken badly about Mummy and even defended her whenever Sherlock complained about her.

That’s the reason he posed his question. But John has misunderstood. John’s confusion, his supposition Sherlock is afraid for his own sanity is not what he expected. He can’t decide whether to feel annoyed, angered or amused by John’s assumption. 

Meanwhile John has taken a deep breath, visibly willing himself to calm down. His voice, when he speaks, sounds constrained.

“Were you? Then why did you use that word, _depressed_?” He pauses, considering. “Of course I’m sad every now and then, and I’ve been unhappy. But that’s in the nature of things. For we can’t appreciate the moments when we are happy if we’ve never known what it’s like to be unhappy.”

“Are you happy then?”

John huffs. “I’m not unhappy, which is quite something, I think.”

“Is it enough?”

“Yes Sherlock, it is. We don’t have a right to happiness. We should cherish every happy moment we get. I’ve had many of those and both your Daddy and Mr Talbot have done me the honour of calling me their friend, which is very important to me. And I do hope you consider me to be your friend.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock replies with great vehemence. “Whatever would make you think you’re not?” With his small hand rake he attacks the earth anew. 

Changing the subject appears to be the most viable option to swerve the conversation back to a direction _he_ lays out. Besides, John has just mentioned something Sherlock has wished to bring up for a long time.

“Tell me,” he demands. “Why do you call Mr Talbot ‘Mr Talbot’ while he always refers to you as John? Surely you know his name is Edmund.”

John chuckles. “That’s class for you, Sherlock. I’m nothing but your gardener while Mr Talbot derives from a very powerful family up North. You wouldn’t be able to tell by his accent of course, seeing as he’s gone to your school and then Cambridge after.” When he notices Sherlock’s expression of astonishment he goes on: “Oh, hasn’t he told you? That will be another familiar face to watch out for in the photographs. Your Daddy told me there’s whole walls filled with photographs of all the classes throughout the years. Anyway, he once told me he fell out with his family while he was at Cambridge and, well, I don’t know whether you’re familiar with any of this, but since then he had to fend for himself. One day your Daddy came home, carrying him along like something that had washed up on the shore.”

_”But wherever did Holmes find him? He must have dug him up straight out of the muck. I mean, that scandal… Who’d ever imagine engaging an addict to teach his children?”_

The words Sherlock overheard at Daddy’s funeral leap up from the blur of conversations and images of that horrid day. Obliviously, John prattles on, lost in joyful reminiscences, or so Sherlock presumes, judging by the fond smile that has settled on John’s face.

“He was as thin as a beanstalk; well I suppose he still is, he certainly didn’t look like he’d added much extra weight when he left here even though Cook tried to stuff him, always preparing him puddings and cakes. But from the way he carried himself I could still see he was upper class and when he opened his mouth to speak to me he proved me right.”

John lays down his hand trowel and sits back on his haunches to better expand on his story. 

“Your mother was dead set against him living with you but your Daddy convinced her they could cross the world from East to West and North to South and they wouldn’t be able to find a tutor better suited to teach their children. And he was right of course, like he always was. In the beginning we didn’t see much of Mr Talbot, he spent a lot of time in his room, but once he got out Mycroft and he got on like a house on fire, right from the start.”

Frowning, John scratches his head, the scrape of his fingernails over his scalp ringing through the silence of the afternoon.

“I don’t know whether I should tell you this,” he goes on, “but I did see why your mother didn’t want him in her house at first. Unhappy people can do strange things, Sherlock, and I guess Mr Talbot was feeling very lost and abandoned when your Daddy brought him here. When people feel they can’t handle life any more all they want to do is flee. Mr Talbot was fleeing pretty much all the time. But here he found a purpose again and a kind of family I suppose. He was hit hard when Mycroft told him he wasn’t needed any longer over here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He looks down at his hands, willing himself to suppress the anger he feels flaring up inside him. This is what they have taken from him; Mummy, but Mycroft as well. Then he thinks of the alternative – John sent away from the estate – and he bows his head in acknowledgement of the expedience of Mycroft’s choice. Surely Sherlock and Mr Talbot both can tap into more resources to confront the outside world than John can and Mycroft must have understood this when he made his choice. The blame is his mother’s for forcing Mycroft’s hand to do so. 

“But he always writes me he likes it well enough where he is now.”

“Oh yes,” John affirms. “I understand he likes the boy, even though he isn’t as intelligent as you or Mycroft, but then that would be too much to hope for I guess, and he seems to like the mother as well. Still, does he ever write to you about the father, Sherlock?”

“Actually, no, now that you mention it.”

“I guess Mr Talbot doesn’t like _him_ then, what do you say?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Sherlock confesses.

John smiles briefly. “No, well, that’s understandable. You’re still very young and all the young ones can think about are themselves. But I reckon he doesn’t only refuse to see you because he thinks he owes a duty to that family. He doesn’t like that man and seeing you would only remind him of what he’s lost.”

He picks up his trowel again and uses it to deepen the demarcation in the earth between the grave and the grass. 

“Mr Talbot is a wise man,” he concludes.

***

“Valerie, darling. Mycroft is taking Sherlock off to school now. Sherlock is here to say goodbye. Shall I ask him to come in?”

Sherlock stands waiting in the corridor in front of the partly closed door to his mother’s room.

“What? What is it, Nanny? Oh, I’ve got such a headache.” His mother’s voice is rough with suffering and self-pity.

“Oh, my darling. But why are you lying here with all the curtains closed? The air is stifling. Let me open a window. Would you like a wet cloth on your forehead?”

Instantly, Nanny is all concern. Sherlock can hear her bustling about. The sound of a window being pulled up rings through the room.

“What I’d really want is another green one. Please Nanny, they’re the only ones that do actually help and if you could only _feel my head_ you would give it to me.”

“No,” Nanny says in a firm tone. “Dr Parker said two a day and you can’t have one until six this evening. And you must say goodbye to Sherlock now.”

“If I can’t have my pill I won’t see him.”

“Valerie!”

“I mean it! I want my pill!”

Nanny starts reprimanding Mummy but Sherlock has already backed away, he turns and runs down the corridor and the big staircase. Outside on the terrace Mycroft stands awaiting him, car keys in his hand.

“Have you said goodbye to Mummy?” he asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock nods his head. “Shall we be off then?”

***

“Now that row, John.”

Obediently John bends down and starts stacking another line of slides, depositing them onto the table next to Sherlock’s microscope. On the map of the living room and the kitchen with the exact position of the slides Sherlock has created earlier he marks the location they were taken from before shifting them under the microscope. In the spreadsheet on John’s laptop he dashes some quick notes on his first impressions of the degree of discoloration of the paint samples on the slides, comparing each to the one with the same type and shade of paint that has been sitting in a box in his cupboard for the past three weeks. Over the last two hours they’ve cleared the kitchen and they are about to start on the living room when Sherlock’s phone buzzes. Sherlock ignores it.

“Your phone,” John says.

“Yes. I’m ready for the next stack, John.”

Frowning John asks: “Where is it?” He isn’t referring to the slides.

“Jacket pocket. Not interested. Next stack?” Impatiently, he flicks his hand in the general direction of John.

“It might be Greg?”

“Might be Mycroft. Next stack, now!”

With an exasperated scowl, John stoops down to pick up the next ten slides. Against his chest, Sherlock feels the pulse of the phone as it starts ringing again. John plonks the stack of slides he’s collected next to the microscope and reaches with his hand inside Sherlock’s jacket. He isn’t particularly finicky about it.

“Careful!” Sherlock hisses in his most annoyed tone. John ignores him in favour of his mobile. 

“Here, I told you. It _is_ Greg.” John starts scrolling through the message. “Jesus, two children were kidnapped. By their own father who has been forbidden to contact them apparently. Greg is on his way here now.”

“Well, tell him I won’t see him. He’ll have to roll up his own sleeves for a change. I haven’t got the time to spare.”

“What? For god’s sake, Sherlock, you’ve been languishing on that sofa for five days complaining you were bored and wished something would happen. I gave up on a very promising date to stay here and protect the walls against another onslaught in order to save you from a dressing-down by Mrs Hudson. Greg got seriously pissed off with me for bothering him with questions for cold cases on your behalf. Now he asks for your help and you intend to refuse him!”

“I’m in the middle of the crucial part of my experiment. Lestrade should have called yesterday.”

“Goddamn, do you even hear what you’re saying? Two children are out there with a father who was…” staring down at the phone, “…found guilty of molesting the younger child half a year ago. The mother is frantic with worry. Can’t you imagine what she must be going through right now? And you’d rather concern yourself with… with… with what exactly?”

“My experiment on the influence of UV-light on different types and hues of paint. It’s taken me days to set it up properly and I’ve been waiting for three whole weeks for these first results, which look very promising. I can’t suddenly break if off now because Lestrade can’t be bothered to think for himself for a change.”

John flexes his hands repeatedly, stretching his fingers and closing his fists until the knuckles stand out sharp and white against the blue background of his trouser legs. His voice, when he speaks next, is tight with anger. “There’s a mother out there, not knowing what’s happening to her children. A mother, Sherlock.”

“Yes, we’ve all had one, haven’t we?” Sherlock answers, shrugging his shoulders and making another note in his sheet.

John goggles at him. “I don’t believe this,” he says at last. “Look Sherlock, I’m going to text Greg now we’re ready for him. I won’t accept you’re actually this rude. You’re going to help this woman, even if I have to call Mycroft to make you do so.”

His voice has risen to an unfeasible height while addressing Sherlock and Sherlock can see his flatmate is really upset. Which is wrong, Sherlock doesn’t want John to be angry with him. Oh, why does Lestrade have to call for him now, at the most inconvenient time imaginable?

“Jesus,” he mutters in his most disgusted tone before jumping up from his chair, sending it crashing on the – slides-free – lino in the process. “Whoever gave you leave to direct my life?” He dashes into the living room, drops onto his knees and starts stacking the slides furiously. “You could help me,” he snarls at John. “If we catalogue them correctly and store them in the dark not all might be lost.”

“Fine,” John says, relief flooding his face. “Fine. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

***

“I’ve specifically requested for you to be placed into my old house. Your Matron will be Mrs Lazenby, she’s a perfectly decent woman, every bit as capable as Mrs Norton. We always got on splendidly and you will, too. Your prefect, Horne, struck me as a fine fellow. Do yourself the service of remaining on good terms with him. Remember they will be very lenient with you during the first two weeks. However, once grace ends you’ll be expected to obey the rules and there are many of them.”

Mycroft is walking ahead of Sherlock, clearly enjoying the surroundings, up a creaking wooden staircase and along a rather narrow corridor onto which ten doors open, five on each side. 

“Here we are,” he announces with a flourish, knocking on the last door on the right. When no one answers Mycroft throws open the door, gripping Sherlock by the elbow to usher him inside.

“Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet so you get to choose which side of the room will be yours,” he beams.

As if it matters. With a shrug of his shoulders Sherlock deposits his suitcase on the bed on the left of the room, before turning around and smiling reassuringly at Mycroft. 

“It looks fine,” he says. “Very nice.”

The walls of the room are a faint blue, the bedspreads a darker hue. Next to the beds, beneath the high window that looks out upon the road running in front of the house, two nightstands are positioned, made of the same dark oak as the big lockers that guard the door and the set of planks over each bed. The first impression is one of austerity, like a monk’s cell.

At least this set-up means he’ll have to put up with just _one_ idiot. Pushing his thumbs against the spring bolts Sherlock unlocks his suitcase.

“I’m gratified to find you like it,” Mycroft answers, placing the other suitcase in front of the bed table. “Do you need any help with your unpacking?”

“No thank you. I’ll manage.” 

“Fine then.” Mycroft remains hovering in front of the window while Sherlock starts unpacking and filling the locker with all his new clothes: lots of white shirts and frankly ludicrous black silk ties he already hates for it makes him look like a mortician. He’s never going to wear a tie again once he can turn his back on this hateful place. 

Along with the shirts and ties come pairs of dark grey trousers, blue jumpers and jackets – he’s supposed to refer to these as a 'bluer'. He already despises the hat he will have to wear on his way to and from lessons, made of varnished straw with a dark blue band. 

Every Sunday he’ll be expected to put on an alternative uniform, called Sunday dress. He couldn’t keep the snarl of disgust from his face when the shop assistant first showed it to him on his visit to London together with Mycroft. It consists of a jacket very similar to a black tailcoat, dark grey pinstriped trousers, a black waistcoat, another black tie, braces and a white shirt. 

The shop assistant purred all over him, saying she’d seen few boys wearing the uniform that well. He felt ridiculous while she was on her knees in front of him with her mouth full of pins, humming her appreciation, and behind him later, tugging at the waistline of his trousers to check whether they were the right size.

Mycroft was making approving noises every now and then and those, maybe, irked Sherlock more than everything else.

His brother is convinced Sherlock’s experience of the school, this school, his brother’s school, the school of their Daddy and their former tutor, will be as enjoyable as Mycroft’s. He _wants_ Sherlock to have a good time. 

Sherlock should be grateful for Mycroft’s wishes but he can’t be. Mycroft has the ability to pretend he’s actually interested in the dull activities of the vacant fools he has to put up with but Sherlock can do no such thing. All he can do is remind himself constantly to keep his mouth shut and take no notice of them. The problem is this school is twice as big as the last one so that means there will be twice as many dolts to ignore.

***

“Hello, I’m Gregory Fyfe-Rief. What’s your name then?”

The boy Sherlock will share a room with for the next three terms stands proffering his hand in the open doorway. He’s wearing the same uniform as Sherlock, the dark blue of the ‘bluer’ clashing violently with the bright green of his eyes that peek out good-humouredly from beneath a shock of bright red hair.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, not accepting the handshake. The boy lets his hand drop and steps into the room. His place is taken by a burly man with hair that is the same shockingly red hue as the boy’s. 

“Why did you refuse to shake my boy’s hand?” he addresses Sherlock in offended tones. “Who’s your father?”

“My father is dead,” Sherlock answers. On hearing these words the man turns bright red.

“I do apologise,” he says and starts fussing with the boy’s suitcases. Gregory Fyfe-Rief looks less putout than his father and tells him he can manage perfectly well.

“All right,” the man says at last. “Promise to write your mother every day, Gregory.”

“Yes father.”

“Good boy,” and a meaty hand falls down on Gregory’s shoulder with an audible slap. The boy winces but manages to glance upwards at the man with a look of grateful obedience.

“Goodbye, father,” he utters.

“Goodbye.” The man casts Sherlock a last look before marching out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him with force.

“Has your father been dead for a long time?” Gregory asks.

“Yes.”

That moment there’s a knock on the door. Before either of them can react, it’s thrown open wide. A boy who must be about seventeen or eighteen years old peers into the room through a pair of heavy glasses. Next his gaze drops down to a list he’s holding in his hand.

“Holmes and Fyfe-Rief,” he reads. “Which one of you is the latter?”

Gregory raises his hand. The big boy tips his head up and stares down at him.

“Fine,” he says. “Welcome. I’m Horne, your prefect. Any problems and you come to me first. House Master expects you in a quarter of an hour with all the other new boys. Out the corridor, down the stairs and turn to the left. Got any questions?”

Sherlock and Gregory both shake their head.

“Remember to wear your hat and do me the favour to cap properly. Just show me, would you?”

Gregory is already scrambling for the hat. Sherlock retrieves his more slowly and places it onto his curls. It feels uncomfortable, the cotton band on the inside itching against his forehead. Horne walks up to him and pulls it tighter onto his head. He’s none too gentle about it.

“Make sure it sits straight,” he says. “Always remember it’s a privilege and an honour to wear that hat.”

It’s all Sherlock can do not to scowl at Horne or roll his eyes. He opts for the alternative of closing them and shutting Horne out of his vision instead.

***

They’re not left alone until nine o’clock that evening. Sherlock’s dorm mate looks done in by then but still sets about tacking up posters of racing cars and cricket players on the wall over his bed. 

“Aren’t you going to put anything up?” he asks after a while, looking at Sherlock who sits on his bed perusing the school’s newspaper, a copy of which they’ve been presented with during their visit with the House Master.

“No.” He has briefly considered bringing his elements chart but decided against it as they won’t be allowed to spend much time in their own rooms anyway.

Gregory picks up another poster and pivots on his heels.

“Do you mind if I put his one up on your wall, then?”

“Actually, yes. I’d mind very much,” he answers, not looking up from the sheets even though he’s already decided they hold no interest for him.

“Are you always this rude?” From his tone of voice, it’s obvious Sherlock’s conduct is about to launch Gregory into a state of intense annoyance.

Flicking his eyes up towards his dorm mate, Sherlock smiles. “Only to people who irritate me.”

“Jesus,” Fyfe-Rief mutters and refrains from addressing Sherlock for the rest of the evening. 

***

They don’t wish each other good night. Fyfe-Rief lies flicking through a magazine on cars and Sherlock sits reading a book until there’s a knock on their door and Horne instructs them through the wood to turn their lights off, as they will start the day early tomorrow.

The resulting darkness is lifted every time the headlights of a passing car sweep briefly over the ceiling through the gap left between the curtains. Sherlock lies staring into the blackness of the room for a long time, waiting for the sound of Fyfe-Rief’s breathing to ease out into the regularity of sleep.

His eyes are about to fall shut when a soft gasp from the other bed sends them flying open again. He pricks up his ears, debating within himself if he should ask everything is all right. 

Another gasp, and now Sherlock’s hearing picks up an accompanying sound. A soft constant rub of skin against cloth. Sherlock hopes sincerely Fyfe-Rief hasn’t got any allergies or a dermatological condition for the idea of being forced to listen to his dorm mate desperately trying not to scratch himself during the months to come is rather cumbersome.

“Is anything wrong?” he asks at last, after a small groan and more rubbing.

The sounds stop. “What?” Fyfe-Rief splutters in a dazed voice.

“Is anything wrong?” Sherlock repeats. “If your skin is irritated you shouldn’t rub it, that will only increase the inflammation and the itching. Haven’t you got a salve you can apply?”

From the direction of Fyfe-Rief’s bed comes another gasp. This one is more like an explosion of all the air in Fyfe-Rief’s lungs. “Jesus Christ, what kind of nutter are you? I was only having a wank.”

Sherlock processes the information. So it is true others engage in this activity he’s heard Warburton and Pleasance brag about. Enduring a conversation however, is infinitely preferable to having to listen to someone actually engaging in the act the purpose of which eludes him and he considers repugnant. Why would anyone want to hold onto his member except to urinate or clean it?

“I see,” he replies in a stiff voice. “I would prefer for you not to do that while I’m present.”

Fyfe-Rief’s answer is an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“I said I’d rather wish for you not to _have a wank_ in my presence.”

“Excuse me but this is my bed and I’ll get off in it whenever I want to,” Fyfe-Rief tells him. The shifting of his duvet informs Sherlock that Fyfe-Rief is upright in his bed now and probably glaring in his direction.

“It’s only natural,” he continues in an offended tone. “Jesus, you don’t want me to believe you never toss off, don’t you?”

Sherlock is not going to deign _that_ remark with an answer.

“I consider it a violation of my privacy,” he re-joins. “I’d be very grateful if you could pursue this activity somewhere else.”

“And where may I ask. We’re in a school, remember? There’s not much privacy to be had anyway. Or would you like me to have a go at myself under the shower so you can watch? Does that float your boat? I can always flick on the light, I don’t mind.”

“No!” The offensive notion sends a ribbon of disgust shivering down Sherlock’s spine. 

“Hey, I was just offering. Being polite and so on.” He sniggers and his voice brightens as if he’s suddenly hit upon an idea. “You don’t tell me you never do it.” The giggle exploding from his lungs brims with contempt.

“I consider that none of your business,” Sherlock says in the most arched tones he can muster.

“Well, you’re a proper freak,” Fyfe-Rief concludes. “Now, if you don’t mind I’ve some _business_ to attend to.”

The obscene sounds resume. Sherlock puts his hands against his ears to block them out but he’s still a witness to the deep groan that wrings itself from Fyfe-Rief’s throat a few minutes later, the thrashing of his heels against the mattress.

He’d almost wish he was back in his old school. 

***


	6. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quickly he walks to the stairs and steals down them into the hall. The key is fitted snugly in its hole in the front door. Sherlock pockets it and opens the door, stepping outside and gently pulling it shut behind him in one swift movement. Just outside the circle of light thrown by the lamp over the front door, he halts to breathe deeply several times, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate force to calm himself. He doesn’t want to contemplate the number of lines he’ll have to write if one of the Masters catches sight of him now. Outside, in his pyjamas, at nearly two in the morning.

The woman is a hysteric, which is obvious to him the moment Sherlock sets eyes on her.

Ensconced on a sagging sofa covered in grease stains - clear indication of the family’s eating habits - she sits observing him wearily with the tiny pinpricks that serve her for eyes from between the thick folds of flab that form her face. She reminds him of nothing so much as a toad, one of the poisonous ones from the Amazon; touch their skin and you’re a dead man.

Around her the small house is a disorganised smelly mess, its dishevelled condition mirroring the slovenly state of the main inhabitant’s body and mind to perfection.

“One moment,” he tells the gathering in the tiny Bethnal Green living room and bolts out past a resentful-looking Donovan – what is eating that woman _now_? – into the tiny hall, cluttered with children’s bikes and football gear, to bounce up the steps and into the bathroom which is tiny and cluttered as well. 

Over the sink hangs a cheap plastic medicine cabinet with a spotted mirror for a door. An avalanche of toiletries and glistening blister packs spills down into the cracked bowl as he yanks it open. He picks up some of the blister packs and reads the name on the back before pocketing two of them. 

Back down in the living room they all sit staring up at him with a gaze as stupid as any of London’s many dogs would throw him. In contrast, the look the big fat blob on the sofa shoots him is one of careful vigilance, as if she’s just recognised he’s about to unmask her.

“So, your husband… your _ex_ -husband…” he corrects himself at a glare from John who sits patting the woman’s hand, “derives from up North, doesn’t he?”

The woman glowers at him and snatches her hand from John’s grasp. The sharp, dark eyes are busily calculating how to stop him. Her sudden outburst startles the others.

“Yes he did. What’s that got to do with anything? He’s out there with them; he’s going to kill them to spite me.” She fumbles for a sodden handkerchief and treats the whole assembly to a theatrical tour de force of sobbing. Her, indeed hysterical, show of wailing and butting her head against the backrest of the sofa appears to affect the others but he’s been a witness to displays like these too often to be taken in. Besides, compared to his mother she’s nothing but an amateur.

“He’s probably planning to,” he says. “Can’t say I blame him. You probably drove him to it with your false accusations. Turning life into misery for him… and your children.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade cries, outraged.

“Oh, come on, Lestrade,” he scolds the DI. “Feel free to be duped by her theatrics, if you want to but don’t let her keep me from doing your job for you.” He delves into his pocket to produce the blister packs and drops one in Lestrade’s lap, the other in John’s. “If you don’t want to believe me, at least let the evidence convince you I’m right.”

“What…” starts Lestrade but John has read what the packet contains and he tips his head down quickly to indicate he understands, combining the gesture with a frown of disapproval at Sherlock’s mode of approach. Ah, of course, the woman is a _patient_ , a victim, and thus she should be handled with consideration and courtesy. With a snarl of disgust, Sherlock flings himself to the other side of the room.

Photographs in gaudy frames patrol the sideboard next to the sofa. Sherlock picks up one that shows the woman and two children seated in a rowing boat on a lake, mountains rising in the background. Spinning on his heel he shoves it under the woman’s nose, which breaks off her wailing. She stares up at him with bloodshot eyes, pupils blown wide. Over her left eyebrow an angry rash is burning her skin. 

“This is Wastwater, isn’t it?” he states. Mutely, the woman nods. 

“That’s where they are,” Sherlock announces, thoroughly enjoying the confused silence following his revelation. 

“But how can you possibly know?” Lestrade wheezes.

He whisks his phone out of his pocket and starts searching for information on the lake and its surroundings. 

“We’ll try the campsite first,” he informs them while dialling the number. His call is answered after the first ring.

“Wasdale campsite. How may we help you?”

“Good afternoon. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard speaking.” Lestrade starts in his chair but sinks back with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. “Would you be so kind as to give me the names and the number of people of the parties that checked in today?”

“What…? Sorry…”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Names of and number of new arrivals,” he repeats, rolling his eyes but managing to keep his voice gentle and patient, as Lestrade’s would be.

“Right,” the woman on the other side of the line says. “You’re the police.”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything wrong? What has happened?”

For god’s sake, he’s just posed a perfectly clear question. Why can’t she just _answer_ it? What’s _wrong_ with these people?

“Look, madam,” he tells her, restraining his voice to one of calm admonishment. “Please be so kind as to answer my questions or I’ll have to arrest you for obstructing a rather urgent investigation.”

“Oh, gosh. I wouldn’t want that. I do apologise. Though I would like to remind you I’m really not allowed to tell you as you know just as well as I do. Now, let me see. Well, actually we haven’t had a lot of new arrivals, what with the weather. Now where is it?” Sherlock has scrunched his eyes shut with frustration by now. The woman is the most incompetent _moron_ he’s ever encountered yet during his whole career as a consulting detective. How did she even manage to get _employed_?

“Ah, yes,” she prattles on, blithely unaware of his desire to strangle her with his bare hands. “Yesterday we had a foreign couple, from Germany, a father with two children, locals judging by their accent...”

“Fine. Thank you,” Sherlock interrupts her and ends the call.

“They’re up there,” he says. “Best not to send in the local police, I’d reckon. Can you charter a helicopter, Lestrade?”

***

Rules, rules, rules, rules, rules. The whole stupid hateful school consists of nothing but rules, the sole aim of which appears to be to confound him with their arbitrariness and silliness and _uselessness_ so he’s constantly trespassing against them, and by the end of his first month he’s already wasted fifteen hours doing nothing but writing lines.

_My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._

No, he didn’t indeed. He hadn’t even noticed the blasted Mr White because he was all excited at the idea of the experiments they were going to conduct to test the Lewis acid-base theory. Mr White’s voice had thundered over the lawn in the tones of a wrathful god and still Sherlock hadn’t heard, until he’d noticed others were goggling at him as if there was something seriously wrong with him and his hat had been knocked of his head by an enraged Mr White, the colour of whose face didn’t live up to the name of its owner.

_My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._

There are plenty of rules Sherlock could think up and would be most happy to install immediately which are far more useful than the rules the school has devised and expects him to obey. A rule against tossing off while your dorm mate is also in the room, for instance. That rule would serve Sherlock perfectly well for it seems Fyfe-Rief has made it a point of honour to masturbate every night, some nights even two times in a row. All Sherlock can do is resort to a stoic silence while he suffers the indignity of being forced to listen, blocking out the sounds by burying his head under his pillow. 

Another good rule would be to forbid the boys to fart, and this could be topped by a prohibition on any discussion of the action, or even better, all functions of that region of the body, at least in the presence of others. 

There should be a banishment of stupid practical jokes like spanning a cord over the width of the corridor, causing unsuspecting people walking along with their nose buried in a book to stumble and fall and thus provide amusement to their class ‘mates’.

Older boys should be given fines for opening their mouths and running their tongue along the underside of their upper teeth, when they walk past the younger ones. One of the big boys in his house did that as Sherlock passed him yesterday. The gesture had struck Sherlock as obscene and made his skin crawl. He’d averted his eyes and hurried past. The fine should be a hundred and twenty lines at least.

_In the future I will not open my mouth and glide my tongue along my teeth and stare down deliberately at other boys as I pass them._

Now that would be a good line to make that disgusting boy write. Instead here he sits and has to write: 

_My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._  
 _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I didn’t cap Mr White when I passed him on my way to Chemistry class last Wednesday._

***

“Well, well, well. Look who we’ve got here. If it isn’t Peter Pan himself.”

The heavy hand falling down on his shoulder pins him to the ground. Sherlock flicks his eyes up to the face he already knows will be there, hovering over him. The big ugly smirk portends little good. Other boys crowd close around Percy-Smith, the boy from Sherlock’s house who did that filthy thing with his tongue, among them.

“Who’s he then?” asks one of them.

“A nuisance we’ll encounter in our drama club,” answers Percy-Smith. “He was in my primary school and he’s an expert at brownnosing himself into the Masters’ favour.”

This assessment of Sherlock’s qualities is so wide off the mark Sherlock almost scoffs at Percy-Smith’s intense stupidity but with five other boys, all bigger than Sherlock, standing around them he knows better than to do that.

“I’m already late for my music class,” he says in deferential soft tones, gaze fixed firmly on the top of his own shoes. “Can I go now, please?”

“I’m not keeping you,” Percy-Smith sniggers. “See you Friday next.” As Sherlock steals between him and the others he lifts his hand and knocks the ridiculous hat from Sherlock’s head.

“Oops, clumsy little me,” he says. Sherlock stoops down to pick up the hat from the ground and one of the boys whistles.

“What a lovely arse,” he comments. The others explode into a round of braying at the remark. Bright-red with anger, Sherlock shoves the hat on his head and runs off, remembering to cap as he nearly collides with a Master. 

“What—” the man starts. “Watch where you’re going, boy. This is a school, not a racing ground. And why is your hat all askew like that? This won’t do. You’re one of the new ones, aren’t you? What’s your name then?”

“Sherlock Holmes, sir. I do apologise for my hat not sitting straight, sir,” Sherlock breathes, his hand still wavering near his head.

“Yes, yes. Well, you should have thought of that when you put it onto your head and set it right. Let’s ensure you won’t forget a next time, shall we. Your line will be: ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’ll always remember to wear my hat in the prescribed way after I’ve written these two hundred lines.’ That should do the job for you. You can deliver them to Mr Stanford at Blue House. Which house are you in?”

“Red House, sir. But sir…” His voice falters as he looks up at the man and discerns the self-important bearing, the total conviction he’s Master of the Universe, and not just a boarding school in England. It’s no use remonstrating with this man. More than anything Sherlock wants to storm off and hurl himself onto the ground at the injustice of it all. He curls his free hand into a fist, nails pressing in the flesh of the ball of his thumb to steady himself and help him remain quiet.

“Yes? Can’t think of a proper excuse, can you? Thought so. Well, you may go now.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”

The man saunters off, leaving him to rage and fume in solitude. In the background Percy-Smith and his entourage have been enjoying the show, capping as one man when Mr Stanford passes them.

“Good afternoon, boys.” He returns their greeting, affably.

***

Daddy looks so sad in the photograph tacked on the wall of the hallway of his house. Standing in the back row, Sherlock hadn’t noticed him at first. Until he recognised the defeated look Daddy had worn that day when he informed Sherlock Mummy would go to the clinic. 

***

Once more he’s Puck. The role is handed to him a quarter of an hour after he first enters the small theatre where the school plays are staged. A smattering of boys is already assembled there, Percy-Smith and company among them. In front of them stands their teacher, a Mr Harrow.

“Right,” he says. “I believe we are complete, aren’t we? Three new boys have joined our small assembly. Please rise and show yourselves to the others, boys.” Once they’re standing. “Derek Crown, Sherlock Holmes and Benjamin Smeaton. Give them a hearty welcome will you?” He starts clapping his hands, indicating with a bob of his head the older members of the theatre club should follow suit. This causes the three new boys to blush and fidget where they stand.

“Fine.” Mr Harrow signals they should seat themselves again. “Now to the business in hand. This year I’ve chosen ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ for our Shakespeare play. You, Percy-Smith, will be Oberon. Titania, Edeson. Puck, Holmes. Hermia…”

After they’ve been dealt their roles, Mr Harrow launches at length into a recital of both the meaning of the play and the way it should be interpreted. His slightly nasal tones with the faint traces of a Southern accent beneath his affected vowels inform Sherlock their teacher can’t be a very good actor himself, for surely he would have got rid of it if he were. If Sherlock closes his eyes he can almost imagine he’s sitting in the shed next to John and not in the school, since the pitch of John’s and Mr Harrow’s voice is almost identical. He smiles.

In front of them, Mr Harrow has worked himself up to a fine sweat, gesticulating wildly and almost frothing at the mouth in his enthusiasm. He must be a widower, Sherlock thinks. Otherwise it would be rather hard to explain the wedding band on his right hand with the rather frayed cuff from which the hand emerges. In addition, no teacher’s wife would allow her husband to walk out the door in order to confront a band of boys with an old grease stain shamelessly flaunting itself on the right upper leg of his trousers.

Just as suddenly as Mr Harrow has started his exposé he breaks it off with a brisk: “Any questions, no? All right, off you go and learn your roles.”

They all start trouping out of the theatre when Mr Harrow calls out: “Holmes, a word please.” The others file on, several throwing him an enquiring glance, thankfully Percy-Smith was one of the first to leave.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Mr Harrow tells them once everyone is gone. “I just wanted to have a word with you. You didn’t listen to a word I said just now, didn’t you? Well no one ever does, so I can’t say I blame you.” He turns up the corners of his mouth but Sherlock can detect nothing funny in the remark so he keeps his expression blank.

“I just thought you should know I’ve handed you the role at Mr Lowsley’s special request,” Mr Harrow continues. “He’s an old friend of mine and I was happy to do him the pleasure. During our last meeting he spoke very highly of your acting capabilities. If I am to believe him you alone were responsible for the success of every play you performed in. Well, you know him, you’ll agree with me that Arthur can let himself be carried away by the arts. Nevertheless, after hearing all his praise I’ve set my expectations very high. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t, sir.” 

“Good. Well, that’s all. Off you go.” 

***

_27th October, 1990_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_My dear boy, I’m so very, very sorry to have to read school continues to be such a huge disappointment to you. Against the odds, against my better knowledge, I had hoped you would find a means to adapt yourself to the demands of school life, thus enabling yourself to endure it better. Enjoyment would have been too much to ask for, I presume._

_Your brother had some problems with the school as well in the beginning, not so much with the rules and the teachers, as with the level of intelligence in some of his fellow schoolmates. He made the mistake of comparing them to himself, thus expecting too much of them._

_Once he had adjusted his expectations however, he was able to enjoy the school and appreciate the institute for what it is: a place that will prepare you for the role in society you will be expected to play, seeing as whom your dear father was and your mother is, and who your grandparents were. Mycroft is well aware of the duties he owes to our great nation. I see this line of thinking is not yours, however._

_Your father and I once spoke of our experiences in school. Have I told you yet your school was mine once as well? I was in Yellow House. To me, school was liberation from the cloying shackles of my family’s narrow-minded views of what was good and proper, the first place I found where I was able to live and breathe freely with fellow-beings who didn’t disapprove of me constantly. To your father however this same school had been a prison and he resented each day he had to spend amongst its walls and inhabitants._

_Still, Sherlock, I can only advise you to suffer silently. Refuting the school and ranting against its injustices will not hurt the school and only serve to harm you. Please don’t let that happen. If you find you need to fulminate against anything or anyone, feel free to write to me at all times. Consider me a listening ear; I will not judge you, whatever you say, just quietly remonstrate with you and hope to show you that forbearance and endurance will serve you the best for the years to come._

_I’m fully aware, my dear boy, how much you’ve already borne._

_Now, concerning this other matter with your roommate. You’ve obviously approached the boy in the worst possible way and greatly offended him. The manner of his revenge is improper to say the least, but very effective obviously, if it provokes you this strongly._

_Dear Sherlock, I honestly don’t see how I could approach the matter in hand in a delicate manner so I’ll be blunt. Forgive me for being this frank with you but have you never yet experienced this urge to pleasure yourself? You’re almost fourteen now so you ought to be on the cusp of discovering yourself as a sexual being, as we all are. You may blush writing or thinking about it but never feel ashamed, for this desire is only natural._

_Without sex we wouldn’t exist. Ideally sex and love are bound in a happy marriage, as your parents’ was for a long time, Sherlock, but sadly sex can enslave and debase us as well. The first discovery of its existence, however, is a phase every boy and girl must go through in solitude, for first one must learn to deal pleasure to one’s own body, before one can start sharing the enjoyment with others._

_Another year at the utmost and you will find this out for yourself. In the meantime, the less you flaunt your disgust in front of the boy the less reason you will give him to taunt you._

_I do hope my candid discourse has not upset your sensibilities nor made you feel you’re in any way not what you ought to be. You are a very special boy, Sherlock, in that you’re fiercely intelligent and quick and set very high standards for both yourself and others._

_Raise them even higher for yourself but lower them for the people of your acquaintance (with the exception of Mycroft, John, Mr Mancini and undersigned. You may expect the highest possible standards from them). Don’t sentence others for being stupid and obtuse but accept they do not know they are and thus can’t help it. Remember the words of Christ on the cross. You will find life will be easier to bear if you do._

_With these words of encouragement, my dear boy, I bid you adieu._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Edmund Talbot_

***

Sherlock lowers the letter with arms that feel heavy and clumsy. With a great effort he manages to force the bile he’s felt rising in his throat back to his stomach. His gaze flits towards Fyfe-Rief who’s lying on his back, reading some nonsensical sci-fi novel about intergalactic warfare. The thought of everyone around him engaging in this _filth_ is hard to contemplate. Yet Mr Talbot practically confessed having done so when he was young, implying others would have done the same, John, Mr Mancini – no surely not Mr Mancini, he’s such a dignified old gentleman. But he was young once – so Mr Mancini, Mycroft and even Daddy.

He refuses to believe that. Not Daddy. Not his Daddy.

***

The pills are stowed away safely in Sherlock’s locker, useless to him but not forgotten. 

He’s waited for more than a year to get hold of the things and now he’s in possession of them he can’t do anything with them. He had imagined pulverising the pills and setting up tests with them in the school’s laboratory but the teacher, Mr Beckett, patrols the laboratory like a bloodhound, his eyes roving everywhere and looking straight through them all, so there’s no chance of Sherlock even starting a proper experiment. At the end of the school day the laboratory is locked and the key disappears in the inner breast pocket of Mr Beckett’s jacket.

From their hiding place the pills whisper at him every night: “Come and get me, try me.” Almost every night, after Fyfe-Rief has started snoring softly, Sherlock creeps out of his bed and up to his locker. With the most elaborate care, stopping to check upon the continuance of Fyfe-Rief’s regular breathing every five seconds, he opens the door and inserts his hand between the stack of jumpers to feel for the pills. He frees the blister packs from their woolly prison and huddles beneath the bedclothes with his torch to look at them, turning them over and over in his hands. Each pill holds no secrets for him, not after he’s learned all the package inserts by heart, and read up some more in his introduction to biochemistry. 

Even if Mummy had been ‘normal’ to start with she must now have evolved into a state of absolute madness, after having addled her brain with so many different chemicals. The cells that make up her brain must have lost all track of what they’re supposed to do. One day they’re being instructed to slow down and relax, the next one they’re jolted into producing high levels of serotonin and dopamine. He hasn’t figured out yet whether the damage she’s done will be permanent or whether she might recover if she would stop swallowing the stuff. 

Not that that is ever going to happen.

One night, he lifts yet another strip to his eyes and sighs. He should probably just get rid of them. He’s not going to take one of those pills himself, thank you very much, he’s not going to cripple his brain deliberately. He needs to get himself access to that laboratory. 

Sherlock looks at his alarm: one thirty. Mr Beckett is in his own bed now, probably snoring, just like Fyfe-Rief. The whole school is in bed, providing him with ample time to force the lock of the door to the laboratory building and experiment as much as he wants to. The next instant he swings his legs over the side of his bed and feels for his slippers. Then he draws a jumper from his locker and pulls it over his head, completing the ensemble with his jacket. He tiptoes back towards his bed and searches on the plank over the bed for his book on neurochemistry and his penknife. From the bed he picks up his torch and the strips of pills. Keeping one, he stashes the rest back in their hiding place and locks the locker again. He lays his hand on the door handle and waits for a particularly loud snore from Fyfe-Rief to yank the door open and dart into the corridor. 

Quickly, he walks to the stairs and steals down them into the hall. The key is fitted snugly in its hole in the front door. Sherlock pockets it and opens the door, stepping outside and gently pulling it shut behind him in one swift movement. Just outside the circle of light thrown by the lamp over the front door he halts to breathe deeply several times, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate force to calm himself. He doesn’t want to contemplate the number of lines he’ll have to write if one of the Masters catches sight of him now. Outside, in his pyjamas, at nearly two in the morning.

Around him the night is quiet, just the low hum of London rising up from where the great city lies spread out beneath the hill upon which the school is situated. The school terrain is sparsely lit by some street lamps along the paths and the lamps over the front doors of the various buildings. He waits until his eyes have adjusted themselves to the darkness, or what passes for darkness in these surroundings. It never gets as truly dark here as it does back home.

When he’s sure he’ll be able to find his way, he starts walking in the direction of the laboratory, avoiding the occasional pools of light along the way. Once he’s arrived at the building, he stands, gathering his courage to walk up to the door and start picking the lock, before realising that he would be illuminated like an advertisement for trespassing. That would be a totally stupid idea.

Orientating himself, he sets off for a clump of oaks that grows to the left side of the building. Taking care to remain on the grass and not leave his footprints on the earth beneath the trees, he falls down on his knees and moves his hands loosely over the ground. His finger pads encounter clods of earth, freshly fallen leaves and twigs until after what feels like an eternity, his right forefinger grazes what he is looking for: a sizeable stone. He grasps it and runs back towards the entrance of the building.

Aiming carefully – he’s only got one chance – he throws the stone at the front door light. His ears register the shattering of glass and his eyes exult in the resulting darkness. He’s free to enter now. 

The sharp wail of the alarm that starts screeching through the air nearly renders his eardrums asunder. A flood of light springs up out of the darkness, highlighting the building and he has to turn and run – eyes smarting from the sudden influx of streaming white light – to become one with the night again. In the school houses nearest to the laboratory, windows become visible as light switches are flicked and the sounds of doors being pulled open and shouting voices are added to the din of the siren.

Sherlock stands frozen in the darkness, his heart hammering away inside his chest like a piston in an engine gone berserk. He’s shaking so hard on his legs they collapse beneath him and he lands on his bum, not daring to cry out when he hits the ground. 

The groan he hears, he realises after a while, comes from his own throat.

The deafening noise continues ringing in his ears, disorientating him with its incessant shrieking. Shivering, he shakes his head to get rid of the sound until it reminds him he’s the one responsible for setting it off and he should make himself scarce. He must not be discovered here or the consequences will be terrible. He will be kicked out of the school, sent away in disgrace and Mycroft is going to be so angry.

That’s not going to happen.

Another fifteen seconds and he’s going through the pockets of his jacket, to ensure his torch, penknife, the strip of pills and the front door key are all present. He polishes the key with the sleeve of his jumper to wipe off his fingerprints and pushes it back into his pocket. His searching hands hit upon his book only shortly from the spot where he fell down. He lifts his jumper and pyjama jacket and vest and stashes the book underneath the waistband of his underwear. Then he pushes his vest and his pyjama jacket into his pants as well to pin the book into place. He pulls down the jumper and buttons up his jacket, cursing the book for being such a bloody thick packet. He can’t risk leaving it lying around however, and he will look suspicious running amongst the others with a book in his hands, so he’ll have to smuggle it back to his room and safety.

Keeping close to the protection and shade of bushes, Sherlock hurries in the direction of his own house. Upon arriving there he finds it ablaze with light except for, astonishingly, the window of his and Fyfe-Rief’s room. The front door is thrown wide open and a great many people, both Masters and boys, are edging through it and skimming around the building. 

Sherlock pauses for a moment to assess the situation before taking a deep breath. He slinks through the darkness until he’s on the edge of the circle of light around the building, then he jumps into it and starts waving his arms – not too wildly for fear he will dislodge the book – and screaming: “What’s happened, what’s happened? Why all the commotion?”

No one pays particular attention to him. The Housemaster stands roaring that everybody should go inside and back to his bed, _right now_ , and Horne and the Housemaster’s wife are busy shooing the boys back into the house, flapping their arms and instructing everyone to calm down and just pay heed to them and go back inside.

Like a dutiful pupil, Sherlock is one of the first to go through the front door, pretending to stumble awkwardly with sleep over the fringe of the carpet gracing the floor of the hall. His near-fall enables him to drop the key without anyone noticing and he breathes more freely as he ascends the stairs and walks down the corridor. Around him boys are chattering wildly, promulgating different versions of the night’s events. Outside his own door Sherlock waits. He scans the corridor for Fyfe-Rief but cannot discern him amongst the others. The moment he reaches for the door handle, the door is pulled open and he finds himself confronted with Fyfe-Rief’s sleep-crinkled face.

“What’s the racket for?” his dorm mate yawns. Sherlock slips past him.

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “An alarm that went off or something.” 

“Did you go have a look?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing, just a lot of noise.”

Now Fyfe-Rief’s interest is piqued and he reaches for his dressing gown with a scowl on his face.

“Why are you wearing your jacket?” he asks.

“I just donned the first thing I could lay my hands on. I’m amazed you only woke just now. The whole school has been in an uproar for at least the last half hour,” Sherlock breathes, widening his eyes to prove his honesty to Fyfe-Rief until he’s afraid they will pop straight out of his head.

Fyfe-Rief shoots him a look of hatred and stomps out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Quickly, Sherlock divulges himself of all the evidence on his person. He hangs the jacket in the locker and folds the jumper carefully beforeplacing it on top of the stack.

Then he jumps into his bed and buries himself beneath his duvet.

He doesn’t hear Fyfe-Rief return to the room. 

***

_Copperbeech Hall_

_1st December, 1990_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Enclosed, you find the soap you asked for and a walnut apricot cake. On that photograph you sent us you looked thinner than ever so make sure to eat it all. Don’t they serve you a proper breakfast over there? I’ll make sure I’ll have a huge plate of bangers and mash waiting for you the day you return home for Christmas._

_Nanny sends you her love and apologies for not having written to you for such a long time. To be honest, she’s nearly exhausted with weariness for your dear Mum has been in a very bad state for the last month or so. Mycroft even came down from Oxford for a few days in the hope this would give her some comfort._

_I’m glad to hear you like the acting so much and I’m very indignant you weren’t given the position of principal violinist in the school orchestra. I think you should ask Mr Mancini to write to them._

_Your PE teacher sounds as awful as the one in your other school. Maybe the profession attracts a certain kind of man._

_Do feed yourself properly, Sherlock, or you won’t be able to stash all that knowledge in your head._

_Love,_

_Cook_

***

When they arrive at London City Airport, they find a small plane waiting for them. Five minutes after they’ve hopped on and settled themselves in their chairs, the aircraft takes off. 

“Now look, Sherlock,” Lestrade begins, once they’re safely up in the air, pivoting stiffly in his chair so he can properly glare at him. Before he can sally forth on his – by the thunderous expression of his face rather impressive – harangue, his phone starts ringing.

“That’s your phone,” Sherlock tells Lestrade. 

The Detective Inspector glowers at him. “At least wipe that smug grin from your face,” he growls and turns back in his seat while fumbling in his coat pocket.

“Lestrade,” he barks into the device. The tightening of the muscles in his neck informs Sherlock the Detective Inspector will be on the listening end of the telephone conversation for the next ten minutes. At least.

He’s whipping up his own phone out of his pocket when John’s gentle scraping of his throat arrests his movement.

“So,” John says. “You spent a lot of family holidays in the Lake District then? I imagined Italy, or the Provence maybe?”

Sherlock smiles. “I’m astonished to find you still insist upon clinging to your mistaken ideas concerning my childhood. I spent all my holidays at home except for the two times we visited the seaside. The _English_ seaside that is.”

“All right. Then tell me how you recognised that lake we’re heading for now, what is it called, Waste Water or something?”

_”Look, Sherlock. Look what I found in that second-hand bookshop in Pembroke Street. Isn’t it beautiful?”_

_“I can’t see it when you’re holding it like that.”_

_“Of course. Kiss first and I’ll show you.”_

_“What is it, Victor?”_

_“A book of photographs of the Lake District that were shot at the beginning of the century. The quality is amazing. Here, move over so we can have a look. Now this one of Scafell Pike mirrored in Wastwater lake…”_

Sherlock rolls his eyes in a dramatic show of exasperation. 

“You make fun of me for not being interested in such dire facts as the Earth going around the sun but you just keep astonishing me with the huge gaps in _your_ knowledge of the world, John,” he admonishes his flatmate. “And these places are a lot more useful to you, as the distance between our home and the Wastwater lake is approximately three hundred and ten miles while the distance from 221B to the sun is about ninety three million and twenty thousand miles. Which place would you be more likely to visit, do you think?”

John’s open-mouthed look of astonishment is as gratifying as his imitation of a fish that has made the mistake of jumping out of the water with too much enthusiasm and now finds itself floundering on dry land, vainly wishing for a kind soul to pass by and scoop it up to throw it back into its element. 

“A fellow student of mine had a book with photographs of the Lake District.” He takes pity on John. “He lent it to me once and I couldn’t keep from poring over it because of the masterly way in which some of the photographs were framed. Almost like a stage setting. Other photographers had made great use of the light to deceive the eye into seeing all kinds of things in the photograph that weren’t actually there if you looked closely. I learned a lot from that book. It appears the actual scenes escaped from the hard drive clean up. At least up until now.”

“Right,” John nods. “Still, how could you know the father came from up there?”

“They both did. Well, she’s a Manchester girl, her accent told me that. Not a lot of money in that household, John, and holidays in the Lake District don’t come cheap. There were a lot of photographs on the sideboard with the children posing at different ages and always against the same background of water, mountains and sky. So they went up and stayed with Nan and granddad, or just Nan. I haven’t figured that one out. Unimportant detail.”

“But, if his parents are still living there, I mean, why the campsite?”

“Are you serious, John? Even I understand that if you’re about to murder your children you’re not going to take them on a visit to your mother first.”

***


	7. Perfer et obdura, chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door swings to behind her and he’s finally, finally alone in the sick ward and able to start his search for the syringes, the sole reason he set up the whole elaborate charade of the fight. He aims straight for the designated cupboard and he does indeed find a great supply of syringes and hypodermic needles on the lower shelf. After some deliberation he takes a dozen. He mustn’t be too greedy, besides, he’ll have to transport them hidden inside his clothes.

The moment the plane hits the ground, he frees the first aid kit from its cupboard and shoves it into John’s lap. The next instant he’s hopping in front of the door, gesturing impatiently for the stairs to be lowered. The pilot has landed the aircraft in a field next to the camping grounds and he bounces down the stairs, swiftly proceeding in the direction of the entrance, not waiting for the others who he can hear panting after him in the background.

”Police.” He flashes Lestrade’s ID in the direction of the woman behind the counter.

“Oh.” She reddens. “Are you the Inspector who called earlier? You might have had the decency…”

“Later,” he interrupts her. “The number of the plot hired by George Jones.” He’s already grabbed a plan of the premises of the stack next to the stand with information pamphlets on things to do in the area.

“Forty-three,” she answers him. “But what—”

“Thank you.” He spins around and skirts past the others who have finally caught up with him and are about to trickle into the reception area.

“Number forty-three,” he tells them and darts off, choosing the shortest route straight through the grounds.

“Sherlock, wait!” Lestrade gasps behind him. John, however is doing fairly well, having broken into a trot and now jogging along shortly behind him.

_Good John._

***

The attempted burglary in the chemistry laboratory has the school busily speculating for three whole days. The police declare themselves baffled; they wonder whether it is indeed a matter of a break-in or just a fault in the wire that caused the front door lamp to burst. A lengthy check of the wiring of the building is ordered, aiming to confirm the wiring is in accordance with the latest government regulations for semi-public buildings. A few more days and the general attention of the school population has moved on to the discussion of more recent and hence more pressing matters: the results of the recent football match against Eton and the spectacular staging of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

“You’ve all made me extremely happy,” Mr Harrow tells the assembled company after the curtain has fallen for the last time. “Everyone has been splendid, simply splendid. The effect of the gold paint against the pink was overwhelmingly beautiful, Audley, thank you for suggesting it. The musicians outdid themselves, well done all of you. And Edeson and Holmes, you both have made me very, very proud.” 

He stands beaming benevolently at them all. Inwardly, Sherlock sighs upon hearing himself singled out thus. Percy-Smith is seated on his left side behind him and Sherlock can feel his eyes boring into his back. What is it with these schoolmasters that they insist on setting up certain individuals as an example to others? Can’t they understand every word of praise is a stick on the huge bonfire of resentment and the wish for revenge for hurt feelings in the hearts of the rest? That it only incites them to deride and bully the Master’s favourites? Thus in raising a few, the morale of the general mass is lowered. If _he_ can grasp that, why can’t these grown-ups, who are supposed to _educate_ him?

Acknowledge in silence some are better than others and _get on_ with it.

***

Mr Mancini sits listening with his eyes closed, long violinist fingers tented in front of his mouth. His hands shake a little, as does his head.

The last notes of _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ float into the room. Sherlock pushes the stop button on the portable cassette deck just before the applause that had burst forth from the audience at the end of the school concert he’s recorded can be heard. He watches his teacher with poorly concealed impatience.

Mr Mancini’s eyelids remain shut for a good minute longer, a vague smile drifting at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock fidgets in his chair. He’s about to open his mouth to ask for a reaction when Mr Mancini pushes himself up out of his own chair.

“Tea, I think,” he says and lumbers off to the kitchen. Sherlock jumps up and trails on his teacher’s heels.

“What…” he begins but Mr Mancini cuts him short. 

“Would you like a slice of the fruitcake your cook was so kind as to send over?” he asks once he’s flicked on the kettle. “I sent her a most elaborate letter to thank her heartily and she called to say I should let her know whenever I wanted another one so I don’t mind doling it out to you.”

“Oh, whatever,” Sherlock says irritably, flopping his hand.

“Patience, Sherlock,” Mr Mancini tells him and starts fussing with mugs and teabags and tinkering in a drawer in search of a knife for slicing the cake.

“So what do you think?” Sherlock demands once they’re seated again. “You must agree with me it’s most unfair Mr Dickson didn’t make me principal first violinist in the school orchestra.”

Picking a crumb of cake from his trouser leg, Mr Mancini chuckles. “Oh yes. I do definitely agree with you, you are a far better violinist than the unlucky sod who got the unpleasant job of having to deal with _you_ ,” he concedes. “But have you ever considered what the principal’s task in the orchestra is? Apart from shining in the solos, that is?”

“The principal is the conductor’s right hand in leading the orchestra,” answers Sherlock.

“Exactly,” nods Mr Mancini and remains silent thereafter, looking at Sherlock expectantly.  
Sherlock shrugs, quirking his right eyebrow in a question for further clarification.

“Would you call yourself a leader, Sherlock?” his teacher asks after a while. “Have you ever thought about what it takes to lead others, whether in an orchestra or, for instance, a government?”

“He is the first and the best. And I’m the best.”

“Yes, you’re the best, Sherlock. We’ve already ascertained ourselves of that fact. Sadly, being the best isn’t enough to be a leader. It will do for a soloist, or might even work if you’re accompanist is kind and generous, like Mr Robinson was. The first wish of a true leader however, is to help his companions rise above themselves, not to outdo them. Could you do that?”

“I’m setting them an example of what they could be.”

“Are you now? What a disheartening model you provide them with. No one could deny you’ve got the makings of a great musician in you. In some ways you already are a great musician. But I dare say showing your fellow musicians what they ought to be and never coaxing them along to reach that level must rub them the wrong way.” The old violinist is smiling no longer. His stern look impels Sherlock to look down at his hands resting in his lap.

“Come,” Mr Mancini enjoins in a more gentle tone. “I’m not mad at you, my dear boy. How could I ever be angry when my ancient heart leaps with joy whenever I hear you play? You’re young yet and you’ve got much to learn. Consider this a lesson in humility, Sherlock. It was about time you got one. Profit by the experience, and you’ll find it will have helped you become an even better violinist.”

Bending forward with some difficulty, he extends a quivering hand to pat Sherlock on the knee.

“I suppose, by now you’re ready to admit settling into a sulk when you were appointed second violinist wasn’t the smartest of moves. You should humbly ask Mr Dickson whether you may play your Bach for him. Treat his ears to a rendition they will never have encountered before in that school hall and he will be delighted to have you shine in a solo performance during every concert. After all, the glorious glow of a star makes its surroundings stand out against the darkness of the universe.”

***

“Oh dear, it’s frankly astonishing how much you resemble your departed father. At University, my friends and I were all most violently in love with him, you know? Well, all the girls, I suppose. He cut such a dashing figure; he was the height of Byronic Romanticism. And here we had to make do with these pimply ghouls who were only interested in getting into our knickers as fast as humanly possible.”

The woman with the fake auburn hair who has cornered him, and is now shoving her ample décolleté under his disapproving nose, may be a member of the Board of Directors of the City of London Corporation in ordinary life, but drink has lowered her fences of propriety to those of a village girl stumbling out of the pub at closing time, three sheets to the wind. She _is_ drunk, Sherlock can smell the alcohol on her breath as she cranes her head to whisper confidentially into his ear. She repels him.

“ _He_ didn’t,” the woman whinnies. “He was such a true gentleman. But we would have let him. We all hated him for not even trying, lamenting the fact he must be gay.”

“Madam,” he croaks, “please. You’re talking about my father.”

“Aw, come on. You’re a big boy. And sooo handsome.” She drapes a heavily bejewelled hand on his arm. He stares down at it in the same frozen horror a Carpet Viper would instil in him if it had crept up his jacket sleeve. 

“My dear lady Euston. I’m delighted to find you enthralled by my brother’s conversation. Most boys that have yet to turn fourteen don’t have much to say for themselves, wouldn’t you agree?” Mycroft’s suave tones save Sherlock from his perilous situation. 

Taking her by the arm, Mycroft carries her off in the direction of the sofa where Mummy is seated. Two sloshed floozies, one drugged to the eyeballs on pills, and the other sloshed with drink. Between the two of them they’ll create a fine tableau of excess and sloth.

Sherlock glowers after the woman and checks his watch. Ten past twelve. He reckons he might be excused now. After all, Michael is here as well to help Mycroft ensure the gathering won’t actually collapse into an orgy of inebriated decadence. 

Smiling and simpering at various people, the corners of his mouth aching with the effort, he slides through the heated throng of people. Once he feels the door handle beneath his fingertips he heaves a sigh of relief. Out in the hallway he runs up the stairs and down the corridor to the safe solitude of his own room, slamming the door to behind him.

***

The last guests left yesterday and the house stands empty and silent again. Mummy has made a tactical retreat to her room for what Sherlock supposes will be the remainder of his holiday so the second day of January of the year nineteen hundred and ninety-one finds just Mycroft, Michael and Sherlock seated at the table for breakfast. Michael will depart later that morning to spend the remainder of his vacation at home with his own family.

“But what should Baker _do_?” Michael asks, buttering his toast. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Michael and Mycroft have been doing nothing but arguing about this stupid conflict somewhere in the Middle East. As far as Sherlock can see, there’s always some war or semi-war going on over there. The whole Bible is nothing but stories of people whacking each other senseless. Apparently that’s what they prefer doing in that part of the world.

Mycroft starts on a lengthy exposé of what his advice to the Secretary of State of the United States would consist of and Sherlock tunes him out, concentrating on the grinding movements of Michael’s jaw as he sits munching his toast instead. The resemblance of his brother’s boyfriend to a ruminating bull is striking. A small glob of strawberry jam clings to one corner of Michael’s mouth after he has taken another bite; the movement of the muscles around his mouth send it on a slide down his chin and his tongue darts out to lick at it.

Sherlock sits staring openly at him, swallowing back his revulsion. How is it possible Mycroft desires to bring his own body into close contact with this obnoxious creature? From beneath his lashes he glances at his brother who sits holding forth on his lecture, the embodiment of prim elegance in his cream shirt of soft Egyptian cotton underneath his camel cashmere jumper.

The next moment, Mycroft’s long arm extends and his fingers entangle themselves with Michael’s paw resting next to his plate. He squeezes and concludes: “…and that’s what Mr Baker ought to have done. Of course there’s no way out now. We must go to war.”

“Exactly,” Michael answers, frowning. “You speak so easily of it, Mycroft, so dispassionate. But think of all the women and men that are going to die, and the children. _Children_ , Mycroft!”

“I deplore that certainty as much as you do,” Mycroft answers him. “But seeing as how our American allies bungled it, now they have their cake they’ll find they must, in fact, eat it, much as they might deplore doing so. The blood will be on their hands, not ours.” 

“They’re nothing better than barbarians.”

“You’re right, and we are the Romans. Unfortunately, in our times the Barbarians are the ones ruling Rome so the Romans had best do as they do.”

Michael looks thoroughly disgusted. 

Mycroft sighs. “It’s always the same discussion, isn’t it? Why do you refuse to acknowledge the system works this way? Besides, the system isn’t the problem, the system is perfectly fine. The problem is the amount of ignorance and stupidity we’re confronted with every day. Because people can’t be bothered to think.”

“We can’t all be as smart as you,” Michael snaps. Before Mycroft has time to open his mouth for a retort he adds. “I apologise, but you see… Jesus, Mycroft. Sometimes I wonder whether the liquid flowing through your veins is blood or ink. I know it’s blood of course.” A quick glance between them and Michael swivels in his chair and addresses Sherlock: “What do you think, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock flinches at the intrusion on his privacy. “These things don’t interest me,” he mutters.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft admonishes him. “Of course they interest you. History is created as we speak. The whole world has been holding its breath for months.”

“I can’t see how the world would do that. And if it had, it would be dead by now,” quips Sherlock.

“My phrasing was, as you understand perfectly well, metaphorical. What I meant to say is that we should follow the course of these preliminary talks and the war and the ensuing peace talks closely as we can learn a lot from it.”

“Yes, Mycroft. I guess you could, because you like that kind of stuff. Personally, I couldn’t care less,” Sherlock says, looking his brother squarely in the eye.

Mycroft’s right hand clenches into a fist. He briefly closes his eyes before replying with lips tightly pursed: “Your answer saddens me, Sherlock. You’ll be fourteen years old in a mere four days. It’s about time you started taking an interest.”

Sherlock glares at his brother, at the grade A _idiot_ seated beside him he’s chosen for his companion and he wants to choke at the unfairness of it all. Daddy would never have spoken to him like that, would have exulted over his high grades in Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics and his languages and not berated him for his A-‘s in History, Religious Studies and Geography as Mycroft has done. Fighting against the tears of frustration brimming behind his eyes Sherlock jumps up from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft cries out but Sherlock is already fumbling with the lock of the doors to the terrace and he runs through them, drawing the cold fresh air of the wintry garden deep into his lungs.

***

The elevator jerks to a stop. The ceiling light flickers once, twice. Sherlock waits, uncertain what to do. A sudden tremor almost makes him lose his balance. Above his head, the light flares up and the next moment he’s pitched into absolute darkness.

_All right._

Well, no, the situation is actually far from right but it’s no use panicking now. He blinks his eyelids rapidly several times. To the right, his eyes detect a faint green glow. Of course, the backlight of the alarm button on the control panel. He brings his arm up to push the button when a sudden lurch of the lift sends his heart leaping into his throat.

The next instant he’s falling, crashing downwards, plunging with increasing speed down the crevasse of the elevator shaft, hurtling to the bottom where he will end as a big wet blob they will need to scrape off the ground.

Just as abruptly as the plummet started it halts, the momentum of the elevator reverses, and now the thing is spiralling upwards. With a hiss, the lights spring back to life again but when Sherlock looks up he finds the ceiling is no longer there, he has to shut his eyes against the blinding glare of the sun. Still faster the lift is travelling and in his ears he hears a great booming noise – they’ve broken through the sound barrier – and he’s gasping and suddenly everything is drenched.

***

Sherlock wakes fighting for breath, throwing the duvet off his overheated body. His underwear and pyjama bottoms cling to his hips unpleasantly. When he tugs at them to pull them loose he’s shocked to find them moist. Shame sends his cheeks firing. He didn’t wet himself now, did he? 

Tentatively, he sniffs his hand but instead of the expected sour waft of urine another, more subtly offensive, smell travels up his nose. The moment he starts wondering what the smell can be, understanding hits him. It’s the morning of his fourteenth birthday and his body has betrayed him.

Shivering, he raises himself and walks over to his closet in search of clean underwear and pyjamas. He carries the small stack over to his bathroom and tears the soiled clothes from his body. His lower belly is smeared with snail trails of sticky sperm. He wets a washcloth and starts cleaning himself, averting his gaze from his reflection in the glass over the sink. Only when all traces of ejaculate are washed away does he dare to look at himself again.

Back in his bed, he resolves to stash a fresh pair of pyjamas and underwear beneath his pillow from now on. Maybe he should be grateful to his body for having the courtesy to warn him while he’s still at home.

***

Each time Sherlock approaches the laboratory, the small dent in the plaster next to the front door winks at him reproachfully, reminding him of his bungled attempt at housebreaking.

Upon consideration, he derides himself for the simple-minded obliquity of the idea. Here he has the instrument at his disposal that will endorse him to lay his hand on all the riches the laboratory has on offer: his mind. With a little investment in time and extra effort he can ingratiate himself with Mr Beckett – who’s already praising him highly for his intelligence and his quick percipience – inducing the good Master of Chemistry to grant his star pupil unlimited access to the premises and all its effects.

***

“Jesus fucking Christ, you dirty rotten leech. One quid per pill, you can’t be serious.”

“Take it or leave it, gob shite. I’ve got plenty of others who’d be happy to get their knees dirty for me for a price that generous.”

“What do you take me for, an uphill gardener?”

“If you were, I couldn’t be buggered, not by you. Look here, a pound or I’m off.”

“What have you got then?”

“Your usual. Uppers, downers, I’ve got everything.”

“Except for a heart. A quid for a pill, bloody wanker.”

“…”

“All right. I’ll have a strip of Prozac.”

“I’ll have my tenner first.”

“You’re a fucked-up arsehole, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Yeah, happy stirring, you stupid twat.”

Noiselessly, picking his way with great deliberation, Sherlock begins his retreat from the vantage point of the trunk of the great horse chestnut behind which he sat hidden. He slinks along the wall surrounding the school grounds, throwing a backward glance over his shoulder every now and then to make sure they haven’t noticed him until he dares to break into a run.

He had sought refuge from the oppressive closeness of the school earlier that afternoon after a particularly stressful game of rugby during which Coach had been fulminating at him for at least forty minutes straight. He had been up to his ears in the muck, throwing himself against the revolting bodies of the members of the opposing team, and still it hadn’t been enough. The man had even had the gall to haunt him into the shower room shouting his dissatisfaction at Sherlock’s conduct in the field.

In the hidden sanctity of the copse, Sherlock had been ranting, and storming, and yelling in turn, kicking the patiently standing tree trunks in his anger, until he had collapsed in weary exhaustion. Sometime later he heard the snap of a twig beneath a hasty tread, soon followed by urgent whispering: “Is this the place?” “Yes.” “What time is it?” “Steady, he’ll come.” “But can he be trusted?” after which a third voice had joined the others.

Back in more populated surroundings, Sherlock resumes his normal pace. He decides to head to the Common room to digest his discovery under the safe veil of newspaper perusal. Mycroft will be pleased with his interest in world affairs.

In the Common room he picks two newspapers at random and installs himself at a table. 

A quid for a pill. That’s a hundred and forty pounds he’s got stashed away in his locker. But money doesn’t interest him. What should he want money for? What _does_ interest him is the effect of these pills on the brain, the body.

He flicks a page and his gaze falls on a story about a tragic death in Snowdonia. His eye skips through the details absentmindedly. How odd that two experienced mountaineers should allow themselves to be taken by surprise by a turn of the weather, one walking out without a scratch and the other drowned in a bog.

Well, he’s been bogged himself, hasn’t he? What results will testing the pills give him except a chance to confirm the info provided by the manufacturer on the package insert is accurate and correct? Big deal. What he needs to look at is blood samples. Blood is the great mode of transport of all chemicals inserted into the body, safely delivering them at their destination to start their healing work. If he has samples of blood taken before, shortly after and a long time after someone has swallowed a pill he will be able to determine whether the pills actually do what they’re supposed to do and how long the effect lasts.

And then, what? What good is that knowledge going to be to him, or even his mother? What he should do is throw the bloody things away and forget about them.

Except, well, it still would be an interesting experiment, wouldn’t it? He won’t be able to use the gathered information in a school paper of course but still it would be fascinating to combine the different results, especially if he had different test subjects.

_“A quid for a pill, bloody wanker.”_

All he would ask them is to give him some blood. The blood that’s flowing through their veins for free. The moment some is taken out, the great heaving factory that is the body is fuelled up to replenish the amount taken. They will be more than happy to donate, they will line up in a bloody big queue sneaking out of that grove. 

He will need their height, weight, age, sicknesses in the family and other data as well of course but what is that information compared to a free supply of lovely little pills?

But how is he going to get the blood out of their bodies? He must do it himself so he will know it hasn’t been tampered with. He will have to learn to put a needle into a vein. That means he will have to find a free supply of needles for practice, and to use once he’s certain he can do it without botching up the job. Lots of needles will be lying somewhere in the small sick ward in his own building but he can’t very well afford to set up an extensive search there, even at night. He will have to find out where they are kept, whether the cupboard is locked and what the lock looks like.

Languidly turning over another page he sits musing over his little problem. His best mode of approach would be to get himself wounded, but not terribly much, just badly enough for him to be taken in to Matron. She’ll have to open her cupboards to collect the materials to treat his cuts and bruises and he will know exactly where to find his loot. Once he’s got hold of the needles he will need to gather more pills during the holiday. In order to keep up a steady stream of test subjects he will have to make sure supply far outstrips demand.

With so many aspects to consider, he almost feels like a general preparing a great battle of war. Only imagine if he will be able to pull it all off…

***

During the race over the terrain he loses John again, John’s legs being so much shorter than his. The tent, when he grinds to a halt in front of it, looks deserted. Under the awning, three chairs stand around a folding table with the remains of a meal. He picks up the pan standing in the middle and notices the red ring just under the rim. He sniffs. Tomato soup. He bends down to reach for the zip of the tent. The next moment he’s knocked violently backwards, the tent fabric stretching around the fist that hit him. The zip is pulled up and the wild face of a man glowers at him.

“What do you want?” he growls.

Sherlock is the one who’s doing the questioning here. “Your children are in there, I presume,” he gestures.

The face sags, shrinking in on itself. “What the fuck are you going on about?”

That moment John arrives, panting, first aid kit swinging from his left hand. 

“This man is a doctor,” Sherlock says. “We may not be too late.” 

Gently, he pushes the man in the chest to induce him to step aside. The man starts shaking violently and crumples onto the tent floor. From inside the tent emerge the sounds of someone vomiting.

“At least one of them is still alive,” comments Sherlock, stashing his arms beneath the man’s armpits to pull him aside. “After you, John.”

John hurries inside. Three stretchers with a child in a sleeping bag on two of them. John makes straight for the girl who lies vomiting with closed eyes to turn her onto her side. Sherlock grasps the wrist of the boy to check his pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.

“Lestrade,” he greets the DI who’s just then entering the tent. “Glad you could make it at last. The more the merrier but it is actually getting a bit crowded in here. Maybe you could step outside for a moment and call for a trauma helicopter. I gather, considering the circumstances, the expense is warranted.”

***

“Hey you, Percy-Smith!”

The incredulous expression on Percy-Smith’s vapid face at being addressed thus by _him_ is almost comical. Sherlock narrows his eyes to add to this belligerent stance.

“Are you talking to me?” Percy-Smith asks, forefinger pressing into his own chest in disbelief.

“Yes, I am, you total moron,” Sherlock answers him, warming to the task he’s set himself.

“What?!” Outrage develops into incredulity.

“You heard me,” Sherlock jeers. “I called you an idiot, seeing as that’s what you are.”

“Shut it, you prat,” one of Percy-Smith’s friends shoos him but Percy-Smith is already lashing out and his closed fist slams obligingly into Sherlock’s chest. Well, it’s a start.

“Is that the best you can do?” he sneers down his nose. “I know you’re nothing but a manky pillock but even you…”

He’s cut off by the hard slap in his face that sends him reeling, followed closely by a wild shove that has him down on the ground with Percy-Smith sprawled over him, his fists flying everywhere. His punches aren’t very accurate but they will serve and Sherlock throws in a few more insults to goad him on. Around them a circle of boys has sprung up out of nowhere, cheering them on, crying out for Percy-Smith to hit Sherlock as hard as he can while others call for Sherlock to defend himself. Two of Percy-Smith’s comrades are scrabbling at his shoulders.

“For fuck’s sake, let go, James,” one of them tries to reason with Percy-Smith. “He’s nothing but a twit. Let go of him.”

“Poxy wanker,” Sherlock yells. The blow delivered to the side of his head for that insult knocks him out for a few seconds. An eerie quietness greets him when he resurfaces. He blinks to open one of his swollen eyes when Percy-Smith’s weight disappears from where it was pressing his hips onto the ground.

“What the… what’s happening here?” a voice booms in the hushed silence of fifty boys holding their breath. Resigned, Sherlock closes his eyes again. Hopefully his bruises look alarming enough for him to be admitted to the sick ward, if only for just an hour. 

“Will somebody please explain?” says the voice. Is it Mr Howard’s? “Holmes? Are you all right? You, Le Feuvre, go and run for the Matron of Red House. Holmes, can you hear me, Holmes?”

Sherlock moans pathetically but doesn’t open his eyes. Hands scamper over his clothes, pulling up his jumper and opening his shirt buttons. Next his vest is whipped up and fresh air prickles the skin on his belly into tiny goose bumps. 

“Holmes?” An urgent repeat of his name. Maybe he should open his eyes in acknowledgement now so he looks up to find Mr Harrow staring down at him. He lets his eyelids fall shut again.

“I’ll carry him to the ward,” Mr Harrow decides and Sherlock finds himself lifted, Mr Harrow straining and grunting above him and they’re moving. Mr Harrow is staggering under the weight, the jerky mode of transport adding to Sherlock’s discomfort and he’s profoundly grateful when he’s eventually deposited onto one of the beds in the sick ward.

“A fight?” Matron’s voice asks. 

“Yes.” Mr Harrow’s tone is one of suspended doubt. “It appears he started insulting an older boy for no reason at all.”

“Do they ever need a reason?” chuckles Matron. “Well, we’ll manage between the two of us, thank you, Mr Harrow.”

The door closes on them and she starts checking him over, her capable hands making a quick inventory of the damage.

“I know you can hear me, Holmes,” she tells him. “Your first name is Sherlock, isn’t it? God knows what got into you but you’re in a fine state now. Just look at you. Three cuts needing stitches.”

She bustles off and he peeks though his eyelashes to observe her searching her cupboards. He determines the one to the far right is the one most likely to provide him with what he needs. He scrunches his eyes shut again as she turns. The swab of disinfectant at the skin over his eyebrow and on his right cheekbone almost makes him jump. 

She grins down at him. “Knew that would work. I’ll give you a local anaesthetic now. Just a little prick, that’s all.”

Once she’s done, she pats his hand.

“Brave boy. Now for the stitches. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

Deftly, she sets to work, the needle flying above and beneath his eyes next. The small operation is indeed entirely painless. However he can’t contain the small yelp of surprise as the tetanus jab for which she makes him lower his trousers and his pants, punctures his skin and finds its way into the muscle of his right buttock.

“Done,” she announces, while he’s busy rearranging his clothes. “I’ll give you a couple of paracetamol you can take once the anaesthetic starts wearing off but I doubt you’ll be in much pain. The scrapes will probably hurt more. You lie back and relax now. I’ll go and get you a cup of tea and then you’re fit to be released.” 

The door swings to behind her and he’s finally, finally alone in the sick ward and able to start his search for the syringes, the sole reason he set up the whole elaborate charade of the fight. He aims straight for the designated cupboard and he does indeed find a great supply of syringes and hypodermic needles on the lower shelf. After some deliberation he takes a dozen. He mustn’t be too greedy, besides, he’ll have to transport them hidden inside his clothes.

He unzips his trousers and stashes the syringes between his vest and his shirt. Carefully, he tucks the tails of his shirt into his pants, zips up again and tugs at his jumper. The syringes are pressing up against him uncomfortably but he will be able to get rid of them in another half hour. When he looks down to check whether they show he finds his stomach looks as flat as ever. 

The urge to just walk off with his hoard straightaway is overwhelming but he levers himself back onto the bed carefully and forces himself to wait. Two minutes later Matron bustles in again, carrying a tray with mug of tea and a plate with a scone and a lick of strawberry jam.

“You think you can sit up?” she asks, depositing the tray on the bedside table and moving over to help him. He wards her off with his hand and pushes himself up, putting on a show of wincing in pain. 

She shakes her head and tuts at him. “Whatever possessed you to start insulting a boy so much older than you? You don’t seem like the type that would be looking for trouble.”

“I like fighting,” he tells her.

After all, he may need an excuse to come back here again.

***

Mycroft is too dignified to _yell_ at him through the phone but Sherlock can hear by his deliberate breathing he would most definitely like to. His annoyance is transported perfectly clearly through the wires connecting them by the eloquence of his silence.

“I simply refuse to believe this,” he hisses at last into Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock flinches despite his staunch determination not to. In his mind’s eye he sees Mycroft pinching the bridge of his nose, up near the root, the great wheels of his mind speeding up, the whole system working to try to understand what Sherlock has been up to and how he can contain the damage.

“You aren’t seriously hurt?” he asks next and Sherlock could almost laugh at the note of anxiety that has crept into his voice.

“No,” Sherlock assures him. “He wasn’t a very worthy opponent.”

“Then why pick him?” Mycroft retorts immediately. As Sherlock can’t give Mycroft the reason he keeps his mouth firmly shut. “Why would you want to provoke someone at all?” Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock, sometimes I wonder whether something is seriously wrong with you and… I just can’t do that, don’t you see? I don’t want to have to worry over you as well. You’re fiercely intelligent, you should be able to avoid encounters like these, not go searching for them.”

“You don’t have to worry over me, Mycroft. I can manage perfectly well.”

“Oh yes, you’re doing splendidly,” Mycroft answers him in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “I should just tell your Housemaster to piss off and mind his own business when he rings to inform me you’ve been rolling about in the dust like a street urchin and you were the one that initiated the brawl.”

“You could actually do that,” Sherlock tells him. “The bloody moron has been making a mountain out of a mole-hill.”

“I forbid you to call your Housemaster names,” Mycroft thunders at the other end of the line and that instant his image flashes up in Sherlock’s mind. His brother is sitting in front of his desk in his small Oxford room, sunlight streaming through the windows, lighting up the comfy chairs next to the fireplace, dancing over the papers on either side of the desk. If he wishes to he can push back the chair and loiter the day away, he doesn’t have to comply with stupid rules, nobody is ordering him around, telling him what he should do and what he oughtn’t.

“You can’t forbid me anything. You’re not my father,” he shouts into the receiver and he slams it down onto the cradle. He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes to force back the tears of frustration.

Then he starts the trek up to the prison cell he shares with Fyfe-Rief.

***

The next day he can think properly again and he has to concede to himself Mycroft’s anger might be justified. Mycroft of course, must never know about the experiment he’s planning. Without access to the campaigning room of Sherlock’s mind, his brother lacks the necessary information to interpret his movements. Actually, his incomprehension is rather flattering in the light of Mycroft’s conviction that it’s his business to comprehend other people’s motives and predict their actions.

The newspapers confirm Mycroft’s forecast and analysis of the Gulf war and its outcome were entirely correct. Mycroft, it appears, is a master at interpreting world politics but finds himself baffled by the actions of his own sibling. A tiny giggle escapes Sherlock at the thought but then he sobers up.

What he should do is work at making it up to Mycroft. With a little effort he will still be able to transform that A- for history into an A and that will make Mycroft happy. And maybe he should try and interest himself a little bit more in politics as well. Find out the name of the Prime Minister and so on.

With that aim, he trundles off to the Common room to flip through the newspapers. He valiantly starts on an article regarding the new Archbishop of Canterbury. At the second paragraph he gives up and hops on to something to do with the UN and Iraq. He actually makes it to the end of the article. He turns the page and his eye falls on a headline that is screaming blue murder about a girl that’s gone missing.

It’s obvious the boyfriend must have done it. Why would he mention in a love letter he was happy for the girl she’d got a lift from a stranger? Mummy wouldn’t have written to Daddy to say she was glad if someone had given him a ride. The boy was jealous and he killed her.   
Not that Mummy would have killed Daddy.

_Stop it_ , he tells himself, _stop this right now._

He stares down at the newspaper. Clearly, this won’t work. His history grade will have to do the trick of appeasing Mycroft. What he could do while he’s here is find out whether there’s a medical handbook lying around. He’ll have to teach himself how to draw blood and do it well. Might take a while so he can’t start too soon.

***

“Our next play will be that all-time favourite, ‘Romeo and Juliet’. I’ll hand the actors their roles shortly but let me give you some food for thought first. Now over the holiday I want you all to spend some time thinking over what the play is in point of fact about.”

Mr Harrow turns towards the rolling chalkboard next to him and starts writing, enunciating the terms while jotting them down.

_LOVE versus HATE_

“Well, that’s one is obvious, isn’t it?”

Some boys laugh.

_LIGHT versus DARK_

_FAMILY versus INDIVIDUAL_

_DUTY versus DENIAL_

“Write those down, boys, if you please, and try to consider how the Shakespearean public would have looked upon these star-cross’d lovers. We, in our present day and age that idolises the individual and promulgates the pursuit of happiness at all costs tend to feel heartily sorry for these poor children. But consider living in Elizabethan times when family was your sole protection against the harsh world outside…”

His gaze sweeps over the assembly expectantly but encounters little response. Sherlock continues his extensive study of the piece of flooring visible between the sides of his shoes.

Mr Harrow’s shoulders slump a little. “Fine,” he sighs. “Maybe you should read the play first. Roles then. Le Feuvre, I have cast you as Romeo. Juliet, Holmes. Benvolio, Edeson. Mercutio, that’s you Percy-Smith. Now for Friar Laurence I had thought of…”

His voice drones on but Sherlock fades out the sound. From beneath his lashes he swivels his gaze to Le Feuvre who lolls in his chair with his elbow sprawled nonchalantly on the back, the epitome of indifference to his surroundings. He is the boy in Sherlock’s house who made that obscene gesture with his tongue once. 

The idea of standing close to this boy and pretending to be in love with him is repellent. Maybe Sherlock should raise his arm and beg to be excused from the honour, ask for the role of the nurse, or Gregory, or something. Except, what would be his argument? And how about Mycroft? It will be such a disappointment to Mycroft if Sherlock is cast in a minor role. Besides, he himself would be unhappy. He _knows_ he is the best actor of them all. So Sherlock should see this as a challenge, a fortuitous roll of the die. Imagine persuading the audience he, or rather Juliet, is violently in love with the revolting creature. 

Oh, it’s going to be marvellous. 

***

He sits folded into one of the medieval torture devices that passes for a chair in NHS premises across the nation, fiddling with his mobile. The swing doors to the waiting room are thrown open and Lestrade walks in, talking into his phone. 

“Yes, sir. You’re right, sir.” Short clipped sentences in a deferential tone. Lestrade is being thoroughly chewed out. The Detective Inspector sinks into one of the chairs with a look of weariness on his tired face.

_Boring._

With a sigh Lestrade disconnects his phone. “The Chief Superintendent isn’t exactly pleased,” he announces.

“So much I’d gathered from the grovelling tenor of your call,” Sherlock says. “He’s a heartless bastard, isn’t he?”

Open-mouthed, Lestrade stares at him.

Sherlock feigns astonishment. “Really Lestrade, he should be overjoyed the children are still alive, shouldn’t he? It would have looked bad if the police would have found them too late. Though I must confess you could’ve taken your time and searched for them in your customary roundabout way. That confounded idiot managed to bungle a fool proof method to do them in and knock himself off into the bargain.”

“They’re safe then? You’ve seen a doctor?”

“No. But if they were dead or in severe danger John wouldn’t still be in there with them. Instead, you would have found him here ranting at me for being an arrogant sod playing God with the life of others because I must show off how brilliant I am.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade nods to indicate that is, indeed, a highly likely scenario.

“So, you’re a hero, Lestrade. Once again. The best of the yard. Congratulations.” 

Stashing his phone into his pocket, Sherlock jumps up from his chair. 

“I’ve sent John a text. He can find us in the cafeteria when he’s done up here. You may buy me a coffee, Detective Inspector. Or whatever it is they pass off as coffee in this back of beyond. Can you imagine people actually choose to live here?”

“Yeah, fine.” Lestrade heaves himself up out of his chair. “How did you know the guy had so many sleeping pills stashed away?”

“Dependency. The photographs on that cabinet were very informative. Their composition declined over the years. He was living with a hysteric – very exhausting – so he starts sleeping badly. He complains to his GP who’s happy to help, that’s what he’s there for, and before he knows it he’s an addict. Well, the pills never help, don’t they? They end up in a divorce but the problems just get worse. Then she starts accusing him of child abuse, because she’s a hysteric and she’s got nothing to do all day except to think up neat little plans to pester him and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t live with the thought of leaving his children behind with her when he kicks the bucket and so he plans a neat little family ‘do yourself in’ party. It’s perfectly obvious.”

“Jesus Christ, and you got all that from a pair of photographs?”

“Yes. You saw them too, Lestrade. If you did actually pay attention to my methods you might have made the deductions yourself.”

***


	8. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the desk he prepared another syringe for service, wound the tie around his left upper arm and held the ends between his teeth. The improvised tourniquet worked beautifully. With cautious fingers he tapped out a vein and sat looking at it with the syringe poised in his right hand. With a sudden movement he plunged in the needle, not too deep, in perfect control and he heaved a sigh of relief when the blood started flowing.

London lies humming contentedly under the warm blanket of the summer night. Sherlock bounces up the seventeen steps and makes straight for the right-side window in the living room to crank it open. When he twirls around, John is entering, jaws stretched open wide in an expressive yawn.

“The beauties of the Lake District can be exhausting,” comments Sherlock. “All those wide open spaces and those mountains and clouds. All that fresh air.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have minded staying there for a few days,” John grumbles. “Even one day would have been fine, one night…”

“Oh John, come on. You know we couldn’t spare the time. My paint experiment awaits us.”

John stares at him. For a brief moment Sherlock fears incredulous hatred will envelop his friend’s face. However, once again he’s underestimated John, and the look he gets is one of wry amusement at his bloody single-mindedness.

“Yeah, of course. How could I ever forget?” John says, smiling wryly. “It will have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid, for I’m off to bed.” Another yawn, followed by a rub over his face. “As your doctor, I’d advise you to follow my example even though I know you won’t. See you tomorrow morning.”

He doesn’t wait for Sherlock’s answer but trudges off up the stairs. Sherlock sighs and opens his laptop. He’ll use the time John lies wasting away in his bed in a more profitable manner by improving his spreadsheet. 

After changing into his dressing gown he flops down on the sofa and sets to work.

***

Mycroft hums in perfect contentment, flipping through the pages of Sherlock’s essay on the machinations that led to the debacle that was the first Afghan war. 

“Excellent,” he puffs. “Excellent! My sincere congratulations on an outstanding piece of work, Sherlock. Your argument can’t be breached when one regards the facts you’ve provided to sustain it. Invention, style and arrangement, all three are impeccable.”

A sincere smile of pleasure lights up Mycroft’s face when he reads Mr Keilson’s comments scribbled on the last page of the essay.

“Mr Keilson was of the same opinion it seems. I’d say he waxes poetical on both your delivery and your memory. ‘The whole class sat in awe of both the rapid eloquence and the overwhelming power of the evidence provided...’ That’s… Sherlock, you’ve made me very happy just now.”

He lowers the essay onto Daddy’s desk behind which he installed himself upon entering the room, waving his hand in the general direction of the sofas in front of the fireplace to indicate Sherlock should find his seat on one of them.

“An excellent piece of work,” he repeats, his hands straightening the paper as if he’s preparing himself for an unpleasant task.

“However, even though I’m proud of you, I confess I was extremely annoyed with you for initiating that offensive brawl. If you do have excessive energy to spare, why not put it to use where it’s wanted, on the football or the rugby field? There you can roll around in the mud to your heart’s content.”

Sherlock presumes Mycroft doesn’t expect him to grace that remark with an answer.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” Mycroft urges.

“I was bored.”

“You were bored.” On his forehead Mycroft’s eyebrows engage in an extremely intricate pas de deux. “What kind of answer is that?”

“An accurate one,” he lies. It provides the most factual description of his state of mind during the hours he wastes away in that stupid school, so the answer skims the edge of the truth. 

“I see.” Mycroft sits pursing his lips, observing Sherlock from behind the desk. Daddy’s desk, which Mycroft has usurped and is now treating as his property, using their current seating arrangement as a license to lord it over Sherlock. 

“It pains me to hear you say so,” he continues, flicking his eyes downwards to study the nails of his right hand. “Although I confess it doesn’t surprise me.”

Pushing his chair backwards, he strikes up a languid posture, templing his blunt fingertips in front of his mouth.

“They’re all so vacant, aren’t they? Even the majority of the Masters. Not worthy of your attention.” Mycroft’s right forefinger taps a steady rhythm against his lower lip. “You’re right of course. The question is, how are you going to make it through your remaining years in school? Earning yourself the reputation of loud-mouthed churl won’t encourage the few Masters who might actually teach you something, in a wish to do so.”

Retaining a steadfast silence, Sherlock sets up a scrutiny of _his_ nails.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice raps for his attention. “I grant you, Mr Talbot and I are probably the only people able to grasp the predicament you find yourself in. Even Michael, and I’m very fond of him, can’t see the battlefield upon which we are wielding our valiant swords against the armoured tanks of ignorance and stupidity. You’d better get used to it, Sherlock, for this is going to be your life. The people around you will always be less observant, less well-informed, and less quick than you are. Most of them are shallow, crass and vain to boot. Not to mention tedious, profoundly and extremely tedious. But they are people, and the great mass of them is what constitutes society.”

“Society is boring then.”

“Ah, but it isn’t. One could view society as a neat little mathematical paradox. One number is dull, two numbers are twice as dull but add a third number and the whole character of the set changes. A fascinating subject of study, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. Mycroft sighs and scrubs his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Look,” he says, “all I’m telling you is not to waste these years in school but put them to good use. I realise expecting you to enjoy them would be asking too much.”

“Can I go now? I promised John I would help him weed the salad beds.”

The information visibly disturbs Mycroft but he doesn’t say a word, just nods his head for Sherlock to leave.

***

A light drizzle taps a gentle melody on the roof of the shed. John raises his mug for a sip of tea and squints his eyes to read the next line from the page: _“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_

Juliet, standing before him next to the workbench that serves as a banqueting table, is quick to retort, smiling at Romeo’s audacity. _“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer._ Now you must reach for my hand, John,” instructs Sherlock.

John takes hold of Sherlock’s hand and holds it like a dead mole he’s dislodged out of a trap.

_“O, then, dear saint,”_ he mumbles, _“let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”_

“A bit more enthusiasm, John. You’re mesmerized by my beauty, remember.”

Starry-eyed, enthralled by the gallant poetry of his lines the likes of which have never lined her ears before, Juliet gazes up at him – which is a bit difficult as Sherlock is as tall as John but it’s the idea that counts – and she throws her shuttle to lace another thread into the magic carpet of words they’re weaving together: _“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.”_

With a nudge of his forearm Sherlock forces John to bring up their clasped hands to his chest, stepping closer. John responds unwillingly, droning his next line: _“Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from…”_

“No, John,” cuts in Sherlock. “You must kiss me first. After ‘I take’.”

“What? No!” John drops Sherlock’s hand, the dead mole transformed into a deadly scorpion, and looks at Sherlock in dismay.

“I can’t do that,” he says, swivelling his gaze sideward, away from Sherlock. His hands are busy crumpling the sheets of paper with his text, turning him into an awkward little boy caught doing something naughty.

“What? Why ever not?” Sherlock queries, vaguely annoyed. They were breezing through the scene perfectly fine. 

“Because…” John looks discomfited in the extreme. He fidgets with the paper some more before spinning round abruptly and tossing it onto the workbench, “…because I won’t.” From beneath the collar of his shirt a bright red blush is creeping up his neck. Drops of sweat bead his forehead.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs, impatience frowning his brow. “Look here, John. You must help me. This is very important to me.”

John recoils as if Sherlock has indeed bared a pair of poisoned fangs and plunged them down into his hand.

“I _must_ do no such thing, Sherlock,” he snarls. “The only thing I _must_ do, what your brother pays me to do, is maintain your garden and ensure the general upkeep of the estate. Otherwise I _must_ do nothing, Sherlock. Nothing at all.” By the end of his little speech the drops of sweat have blossomed into a crown that sits squashing his brow. He still refuses to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at their old gardener in astonishment. What has happened just now to induce John to _snarl_ at him? They’re _friends_! 

“J… John,” he stammers. “What’s the problem? I don’t understand.”

Breathing heavily John turns away, towards the door of the shed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I… I’m just no good at acting. Find someone else to practice with you. Mycroft… or Nanny or… someone else. I can’t.”

A criminal caught in the act couldn’t have made a more desperate dash for the door than John does. The walls of the shed stand reverberating after he has thrown the door shut behind him with a bang.

The text slides from Sherlock’s enfeebled hands. His knees buckle beneath him; he sways and sinks to the floor. 

What has he done now?

***

Aeons pass. Sherlock is leveraging himself up with his hands on the workbench when the door opens and John walks in, his face ashen but composed, hair and shoulders damp from the rain.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is hoarse. “I apologise. I shouldn’t have run away. But I can’t do it. I just can’t.” He doesn’t look at Sherlock, not once.

Sherlock swallows. “It’s fine, John.” Using his hands he leverages himself up from the floor. John grips his upper arm to guide him along. “You’re not angry with me?” he has to ask.

“No! Christ, no, of course not, Sherlock. Never. Angry with myself for upsetting you.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. But I can’t help you, Sherlock. Not with this. I cannot.” And still John keeps his eyes averted, away from Sherlock.

***

Three strips of each, that’s an extra four hundred and twenty pills. That amount will have to do. Even after his little shopping expedition the drawer remains stashed to overflowing with blister packs. What on Earth does she get up to with their GP to have him prescribe her so many?

***

Neither the Common room nor the school library has provided Sherlock with the medical handbook that can teach him how to jab a needle into a vein. He resorts to their own library, the hallowed big room that sits at the end of the corridor, next to Mummy’s study. 

Shelves are fitted against every wall of the room, from the floor up to the ceiling, even on the parts of the walls between the windows that grace three sides of the room, stacked with an odd bunch of volumes, some of them very old and precious, some of them cheap pocket editions on any subject that caught Daddy’s fancy. 

In front of the big mantelpiece, on the antique Iranian silk tapestry, stands a comfortable sofa with a small table to the side. Two high reading stands perch on the right and the left side of the room. A wooden ladder resting against a shelf completes the room’s austere outfit. The russet velvet curtains are drawn against the light. Silently, Sherlock steals across the floor to one of the windows and eases open the heavy cloth. Sunlight streams in through the high slatted window and ghosts over the particles of dust dancing in the sultry air of the closed room, momentarily dazzling him with its brightness. 

On the shelves the books are arranged alphabetically according to subject so he easily finds the section devoted to medicine. Soon he discovers what he’s looking for: a general student handbook. It falls open on his lap as he settles on the sofa. Its publication date is nineteen thirty-seven – it must have been bought by his grandfather, though what the man could have wanted a handbook of medicine for is a mystery to him. 

He realises the book is more than fifty years old and he wonders fleetingly whether that won’t mean the knowledge it contains won’t be of use to him. However, he bolsters himself with the notion human anatomy hasn’t evolved that much over the years; inserting a needle into a vein in the thirties must have been pretty similar to inserting a needle in the nineties except today’s needles are probably a lot more sophisticated.

That they indeed _are_ a lot more sophisticated is soon proven by the primitive photographs that are scattered liberally over the pages of the book. His stomach starts feeling a bit queasy – the pancakes Cook has made him for breakfast that morning at his special request surging against the walls of his stomach – as he looks at the Medieval-looking instruments that were put to use to find out what was ailing people and try to remedy the sickness.

The paragraph devoted to blood transfusion provides him with all the information he needs and he rips the pages out of the book, folds them into a neat small square he can stash away in the back pocket of his trousers, and neatly aligns the book back in its place on the shelf to hide his act of vandalism.

The dust on the shelf has been disturbed by his removal of the book, leaving evidence of his perusal. He tugs a shirttail out of his trousers and draws it along the shelf, next he stands on tiptoe to clean the shelf above, sags through his knees to drag his improvised dusting rag along the one beneath and darts around the room wiping at shelves at random. 

Satisfied he’s managed to confuse any evidence of his reason for visiting the library he walks out. He’ll need to nick an orange from Cook and talk John into temporarily lending him one of his clamping screws.

***

A knock on his door. 

_Oh no…_

“Who is it?” he queries.

“It’s me, Mycroft.”

Dismayed, Sherlock looks down at the clamp with the orange attached to his desk and the syringe he’s holding in his hands. It doesn’t need a long stretch of his imagination to picture Mycroft’s face at discovering him in the current circumstance.

“Wait, I’m… just wait,” he calls out and opens the drawer of his desk to rest the needle next to his pens, and starts loosening the screws holding the clamp while keeping an eye on the door. The door is locked but Mycroft will reach for the door handle any minute, and wonder why Sherlock chose to shut out the world by turning the key once he finds he can’t enter. 

His fingers are working desperately to slacken the screws. He has turned them on far too tight. At last they give way and he can dismantle the damning setup and lower it into the drawer. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the handle is coming down, for a moment that feels like eternity it remains lowered and then Mycroft has apparently released it for it comes back up again.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft enquires from the other side of the door.

“Yes. I’m coming, yes!” Sherlock shouts, thoroughly annoyed with Mycroft’s impatience after disturbing him at this particular moment.

He shuts the drawer, carefully, against the impulse to slam it shut, and makes for the door. When he opens it he finds the hallway empty. He walks up to Mycroft’s room, knocks, and, without waiting for a reply, strides into the room. 

Mycroft sits on his small sofa with a book in his lap. At Sherlock’s entry he looks up with an amused smile on his face. Before Sherlock can ask what he wanted his brother says, “I do apologise for disturbing you, Sherlock. I came to inquire whether you’d care to go for a swim. I hadn’t fathomed you might be otherwise occupied.” His expression radiates kindness mixed with smug complicity.

Bemused, Sherlock stares at him but Mycroft’s gaze doesn’t waver, his light blue eyes shining up at Sherlock with sincere fondness.

“I’d like that,” he offers tentatively at last. “I’ll go and change. Sorry for not answering the door. I was… occupied.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says. “I understand.” He nods, still smiling.

Comprehension flares up inside Sherlock suddenly. Mycroft thought he was… doing _that_ , engaging himself in that revolting activity. A hot blush of shame at the idea rushes up to settle on his cheeks. He can actually feel beads of sweat prickling at his temples.

How vile! Does Mycroft really believe… but of course he does because that’s what he and Michael do to each other when they ‘make love’, isn’t it? Or worse, he’s heard enough in that horrid school to know exactly what Mycroft and Michael get up to and… His memory rushes back to a holiday years ago when he had stood knocking at Mycroft’s door and Mycroft had sounded impatient and annoyed and made those strange noises and that same afternoon Mr Mancini had been so sympathetic when speaking of Mycroft while placating Sherlock’s fears.

“Sherlock. Are you all right?” Mycroft is looking at him, faintly alarmed. Sherlock must be a sight.

“Yes,” he chokes. “Yes, I’m all right. A little hungry, maybe. I’ll go down and ask Cook for a sandwich. You go ahead to the lake, Mycroft. I’ll join you later.”

With those words he turns and flees from the room and the feeling of shame his brother’s enquiring glance inspired in him.

***

His preparations are nearly complete. All that is left is to gain himself virtually unlimited access to the school’s chemical lab. One evening when he watches Mycroft crunching some extra salt over his potatoes with the aid of the salt mill an idea hits him. 

The next morning he visits the library again and finds himself every book on chemistry he can find.

***

At the start of the new school year he’s perfected the art of thrusting a needle into a vein. Several oranges have been thoroughly abused in the teaching process. After a week of practicing, he decided he was shilly-shallying, and drawing the needle out of the orange he flung it away. With shaking hands he walked over to his dresser and reached for one of his school ties, freshly cleaned and pressed for a new year of servitude. 

Back at the desk he prepared another syringe for service, wound the tie around his left upper arm and held the ends between his teeth. The improvised tourniquet worked beautifully. With cautious fingers he tapped out a vein and sat looking at it with the syringe poised in his right hand. With a sudden movement he plunged in the needle, not too deep, in perfect control and he heaved a sigh of relief when the blood started flowing.

He can do this. 

Beneath his white shirt and blue jacket, a line of tiny red dots patterns the crook of the elbow of his left arm, when he enters the dorm room that will be his for the coming year. However, they will close and heal, and as long as the bumbling idiots he will make his offer to manage to keep their arm perfectly still he knows they won’t feel a thing. 

***

With a frown, Mr Beckett flicks through the pages of the outline of a foray into surface chemistry Sherlock has written for him. Every now and then he shakes his head and chuckles but these instances are alternated with approving nods fairly often, encouraging Sherlock to believe his carefully constructed ploy might prove successful. He sits in his chair with his hands under his thighs to refrain himself from fidgeting.

Finally, Mr Beckett lowers the paper.

“So,” he smiles down at Sherlock. “What you’ve basically stated here is that you want free access to my lab during the evenings.”

Sherlock gulps. Has he been that obvious? Well, there’s nothing to it then but to dive headfirst into the waters he’s set flowing.

“Yes please, Sir,” he answers in his most deferential tone. “It’s a lot of work, and I won’t be able to fit it into the hours assigned to chemistry class. The rest of the day is taken up with my other classes.” 

“Obviously.” Mr Beckett plucks at his left earlobe. “I confess I don’t like the idea in general. The school has invested heavily in some rather state of the art equipment recently…”

Sherlock can feel his heart sink in his breast, right into the depths of his stomach. He bites his lower lip to keep himself from shouting with disappointment.

“…However,” continues his chemistry teacher. “I remember being rather impressed with your work last year. You’re obviously one of the more serious boys, which makes me happy. Very happy. So I’ll run the risk of you disappointing me by creating an awful mess in my lab by trusting that you won’t.”

Flicking his eyes up to look at his teacher, Sherlock can’t contain the smile he feels tugging at the corners of his mouth from breaking loose to dance all over his face. He decides it would be best to stay conspicuously quiet right now. The ticking of the clock on the wall over Mr Beckett’s head is the only sound in the tiny office that’s squared off from the laboratory itself.

“You’ll understand I can’t let you in there alone, though,” Mr Beckett muses after the second-hand has travelled its way three-quarters around the clock face. “However, to my wife it’s the same whether I’m sitting upstairs correcting homework or over here in the lab. I’ll grant you access to the lab three nights a week, Holmes. Under my supervision.”

Now Sherlock must struggle with himself to look sufficiently pleased and grateful despite the huge disappointment.

“Oh, thank you, Mr Beckett,” he breathes, as if momentarily overwhelmed by gratitude. “Thank you.”

“It’s all right, Holmes,” Mr Beckett assures him with a benign wave of his hand. “Off you go. I’ll see you Thursday next at eight o’clock.”

***

“You’re kidding me. Jesus fucking Christ. He let you bang him in the arse for three Twixes and a Dairy Milk? I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah, because you’re stupid. I figured out he’s nothing but a little slut and he would do anything for some chocolate. I’m meeting him later tonight.”

“Fuck, that’s just— bloody hell! What was it like?”

“Well, I had to fight the little prick down at first because he kept blubbing that it hurt even though I told him to wet himself with some spit. I guess it must have ‘cause he bled out of his hole once I’d finished. He’d already gobbled up one of the Twixes before we started so I told him to shut the fuck up and take it like a man.”

“Bloody actual hell.”

“Yeah, we had a deal, right? I’d kept my part of it so I reckoned he should keep his. It wasn’t like he had to actually _do_ anything except kneel on all fours. He shut his bawling after that and then it was just… way incredible… really, really hot… like your own porno.”

“You perv. Oh, look who we’ve got here. You’re late, in case you hadn’t noticed, dickhead.”

“And a nice day to you too. You should be glad I turn up here at all seeing as you must be one of the biggest pieces of shite haunting this school, fucking twat. Hell, I’ve had fuckers all over begging me to sell.”

“Haha, dream on, you arsehole. How much?”

“One fifty a pill.”

“What? Have you lost your marbles? Fucking spastic. One pound fucking fifty? That’s fifty per cent up from two weeks ago.”

“Hey, listen…”

“Yeah, well. You know what it’s like. With the current state of the economy and inflation and all that…”

“Look here, you wanker, you must be having a laugh. One quid for a pill and that’s it, you hear me?”

“Stop it! Just listen…”

“Yeah, I heard you. The deal’s off then. So long, sucker.” 

“Well, bravo, bloody actual bravo, you stupid bastard! There goes our supply, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“He’s nothing but an extorter, a real scumbag.”

“Yeah, fine, all right. You’re completely right. Absobloodylutely right. What do I care, you fucking idiot. Now where the fuck do you think we’re gonna find our pills?”

This is a cue line if ever Sherlock heard one. He dashes forth from behind the horse chestnut and grinds to a halt in front of them. 

“I’ve got pills,” he tells them. “All the pills you could ever want.”

“Jesus, just, go shoot it, you wanker, sod off. And don’t you dare tell on us or we’ll come and find you and we’ll bloody kill you.”

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes. If he would consider for one moment lowering himself to their vernacular the term ‘bloody fucking idiots’ wouldn’t begin to describe the amount of contempt he’s feeling for the pair. 

“Look,” he says, and opens his hand to show them the blister pack he’s been hiding there, closing it again the moment their gaze has settled on his hand. “I’ve got all kinds.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the bigger of the boys questions him.

“There’s no need to exchange names. Look, you don’t have to be suspicious. All I’m doing is offering you the pills you want. I don’t want money.”

“What do you want then? Sweets?” the boy sneers.

“Hey, why are you even talking to him?” the other boy breaks into their conversation. “Let’s just beat him up and grab the pills and go.” He glowers at Sherlock.

“Jesus.”

“You could do that, of course,” agrees Sherlock. “Except I will go to my Housemaster and tell him you raped me. You’ll be kicked out of school and that won’t make your parents very happy, now will it?” 

“Yeah, sod off, dickhead. In case you hadn’t noticed, we didn’t rape you – yet.”

“Says who? It will be your word against mine.”

“There’s such a thing as evidence, you little shit.”

“Which is easily created,” Sherlock answers him. He pulls his penknife out of his pocket, flicks it open and slashes the second knuckle of his left index finger with it before shutting the knife again and stashing it into his pocket. The blood starts welling up immediately, big bright red droplets that snake down along his finger.

“Of course I would have to stab myself in another part of my body,” he grins at them and then he crumples to the ground, a snivelling mess of profound misery, protecting himself with his arms over his head.

“I want my Mummy,” he blubs, tears of agony rolling down his cheeks. He lifts an arm to swipe at his running nose, sniffs and starts bawling in earnest. “No please, don’t touch me. It _hurts_! Where is my mother? I don’t want to speak to you. Oh, there were two of them and they threw me on the ground and… and… _Muuummmy!_ One of them held me down and the other he… he… sticked… stuck, he stuck his dick into me… down there… between my legs…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, will you stop it?” the chocolate supplier shouts. “We didn’t do a thing!” 

Sherlock breaks off his wailing straightaway and raises himself in one supple movement. 

“Didn’t you?” he queries. “Then why did you deny it just now?”

“Why? Because…” the boy stutters. The dark red colour of his face proclaims his guilt easily. “Jesus,” he grinds out.

“Look here, you little shit,” the other one interrupts them, glaring down at Sherlock. “What is it you want from us?”

“Nothing too exciting,” Sherlock answers. “I know you want pills. All I want from you is some of your blood.”

“Our blood!” Now the other boy is upset as well. “Fucking hell, what are you? A vampire?”

Sherlock snorts in derision.

“No, of course not. Vampires don’t exist. They are mythological or folkloric beings based on notions that have existed for millennia. The existence of the vampire bat wasn’t known by Europeans until the sixteenth century when they were first discovered in South America,” he informs them. “I want to run some tests on your blood to find out what the effect the pills have on your brain. So here is the deal: I provide you with whatever you want, and you give me a vial of your blood as often as I want one.”

“Fine. Nasty little creep. And how do you propose we get the blood out?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just hold out your arm and let me insert a needle. Look,” Sherlock holds up a syringe and a needle in its wrapping. “All perfectly safe and hygienic. I practiced this summer on my own arm. You won’t even feel it, I promise.”

“Fucking actual bloody hell. You _are_ a complete psycho, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know whether that would be the most accurate term to describe my personality. The term psychopathy, for I suppose that’s what you meant by your derisive use of ‘psycho’, derives from the Greek words psyche – meaning soul – and pathos – meaning suffering or feeling. The noun ‘psychopath’ first cropped up in 1885. Nowadays it is seen as an outdated term for an antisocial personality disorder. I’m not antisocial per se and I consider my personality more stable and composed than that of many people surrounding me, yours being a perfectly fine illustration of my point of view.”

“Bollocks. You’re a weirdo and you’re fucking nuts.”

“Yes, but listen, Reg. He says he’s willing to give us as many pills as we want and all we have to give him is some blood.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock nods.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Reg shouts at his friend. “Have you thought of the risks? Ever heard of A.I.D.S.? He’s no doctor, you moron. Are you going to let any fucking idiot stick things into your body just like that?”

“Well, I won’t have you fuck me in the ass for a chocolate bar, you moron. And I’m not going to pay one fifty to that dirty leech. So have you got a better idea, genius?”

“Fucking hell. You can’t be serious.”

“Well, I am. Creepy little Mr Know-it-all over here strikes me as just the kind of freak who might actually know what he’s talking about so I’ll give it a try.” The boy pivots away from his friend and addresses Sherlock. “Hey, how many pills for the blood?”

“You can have four pills now to check whether they are what you want,” Sherlock tells him. “I don’t need the blood right now as I’ve yet to set up the proper conditions for testing.”

“Give them,” the boy holds out his hand. 

“We’ve got a deal then?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah.”

***

Cerberus itself couldn’t have been more watchful of its surroundings than Mr Beckett. Although Sherlock is perfectly aware laser eyes don’t exist he can’t shake the feeling those are what Mr Beckett directs at him continuously while he sits working diligently at his lab bench. A door, three rows of racks filled with bottles and Bunsen burners and text books and a distance of thirty metres aren’t a hindrance to Mr Beckett’s all-discerning gaze. Resting on his nape Sherlock can feels the sharp stab of Mr Beckett’s pupils reminding him constantly that Mr Beckett knows exactly what he’s up to.

Every now and then his teacher ambles over, all casual interest in the work his admirable pupil is conducting.

“Hmm,” he comments and plucks his left earlobe. “Did you predict this, Holmes? I don’t believe you did. I think it would be rather interesting to find out what went wrong exactly, don’t you think so? Just jot down your thoughts for me and we can discuss them next time we meet.”

“Yes, Mr Beckett. Thank you, Mr Beckett,” Sherlock grits his teeth, struggling to at least _appear_ grateful for Mr Beckett’s remarks.

***

Once he’s outside again, making his way back to his house he kicks away every stick and bigger stone he encounters although the far more preferable alternative is to throw himself onto the ground and howl his frustration.

***

His stock of fresh supplies is dwindling dangerously fast and he still hasn’t had a chance to so much as sneak a glance at one drop of blood.

***

The dancing revellers part and suddenly Romeo is standing before him, gazing intently with his right hand clasped over his heart. He bends from the waist, stiffly and formally, and then he grasps for Juliet’s hand, his urgent gesture calmed to a gentle caress of his fingertips against hers at the last moment. Le Feuvre really is a fine actor and he’s been perfectly nice during the rehearsals so far, guiding Sherlock along throughout the difficult scene. He raises Sherlock’s hand to his face and his lips ghost over the knuckles of Sherlock’s hand before he launches into his ardent declaration of his love.

_“If I profane with my unworthiest hand_  
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:  
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand  
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” 

At first Juliet doesn’t know where to look, overwhelmed by his bold rapidity, but the stranger’s playful lovemaking entices her to join the game.

_“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,_  
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;  
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,  
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.” 

Encouraged by her answer, Romeo dares to tug on her hand, drawing her a little closer to him and she readily complies. 

_“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_

He’s going too swift for her taste now so she gently reprimands him. 

_“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”_

“Stop!” Mr Harrow shouts. He leverages himself up from one of the chairs in the back of the theatre. “Holmes, and you too, Le Feuvre. I must compliment you. You’re both excellent, the essence of star-cross’d young love. Pray continue.”

Thanks to Mr Harrow’s interruption, the spell Sherlock managed to cast over himself is broken. He breathes deeply several times to steady himself and prepare for the next part. His eyes flit up at Le Feuvre who stands waiting patiently, still clasping Sherlock’s hand. Le Feuvre smiles down at him and gives the hand a comforting squeeze. 

“Don’t worry. You’re doing fine,” he whispers. “He is right, you know.” 

Sherlock gives a quick nod before repacking himself. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

_“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;  
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”_

He gazes at her with imploring eyes and she must yield to this unknown boy that is the embodiment of chivalry and wit, bridging the remaining gap between them with one last step.

_“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.”_

He sweeps her up in his arms and suddenly his face is impossibly close to hers and she gasps.

_“Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take,”_ he implores and his mouth swans down to lock on Sherlock’s whose immediate reaction is to screw his eyes shut to seclude himself from the press of Le Feuvre’s lips on his. The few times he’s caught Mycroft and Michael kissing they shut their eyelids so he reasons the audience will conclude he’s closing his eyes in passionate bliss, they needn’t know his real motive.

Le Feuvre’s hand presses against the small of his back, drawing Sherlock closer than they’ve been during the previous rehearsals. His lips are still secured fast onto Sherlock’s. They’ve been standing like this for five seconds now – Sherlock has been counting – and Sherlock begins wondering whether there is something wrong with Le Feuvre. He decides to open his eyes to look when the wet press of Le Feuvre’s tongue invades his mouth, pushing past his teeth and exploring behind them.

With a yelp of fear and disgust, Sherlock raises his hands and gives Le Feuvre a violent shove in the chest. The bigger boy reels backwards. A surge of bile travels upwards from Sherlock’s stomach, the sour tang of vomit added to the vile taste of Le Feuvre’s saliva in his mouth. Around them a clamour rises, everyone shouting at once.

“What is it? Holmes, what’s the matter with you?” Mr Harrow has materialised beside him, is tugging at his arm. “Tell me! What happened? Le Feuvre?”

Le Feuvre shrugs his shoulders and throws up his hands to indicate he has no idea what possesses the other lead. 

Fighting against the urge to throw up over his shoes, Sherlock gasps: “He pushed his tongue into my mouth.” He glares at Le Feuvre who glares back at him just as hard.

“What?” Mr Harrow has raised his eyebrows, as if to indicate he hasn’t heard properly.

“He pushed his tongue into my mouth,” repeats Sherlock. “Oh, god…” 

The overwhelming idea, the revolting smack of that foreign piece of flesh in his mouth is too overpowering to ignore and the next instant a great gulf of vomit travels upwards out of his stomach and he sends the barely digested remnants of his dinner (carrots, roast of lamb and Victoria sponge for afters) splattering over Le Feuvre’s shoes and trousers.

Mr Harrow has managed to step back in time to evade the surge.

“I say, Le Feuvre!” he yells. “What on earth did you do to the boy to cause such a reaction? Holmes, please go and sit down. Someone fetch him a glass of water, please.”

Goggling at his ruined trouser legs with a face on which both disbelief and revulsion are engaged in a game of hide and seek, Le Feuvre mutters: “I did nothing, Mr Harrow. Honestly, I swear. All I wanted to do was add a little reality to the kiss. I was acting. I reckoned Juliet would want to be kissed like that.”

“Yes, I see,” Mr Harrow answers, accompanying Sherlock to a chair and presenting him with the water. “I must say your thinking is decidedly flawed, Le Feuvre. First of all Holmes is two years younger than you are and had obviously no idea what was happening to him. Secondly, no actual insertion of any body parts into any bodies is ever called for on the stage. You’ll just have to pretend. That’s why what we are doing here is called acting.”

He swivels his attention back to Sherlock. “How are you doing, Holmes?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mumbles. The declaration has barely fallen from his lips when his stomach contracts again and a great stream of bile, flecked with orange and yellow spouts out of his mouth, onto the floor and the few spots of Le Feuvre’s shoes that weren’t covered in vomit yet.

“Disgusting,” someone comments.

“A most helpful comment, Peterson,” Mr Harrow quips, patting Sherlock on the back and holding the glass of water to Sherlock’s lips. “All right, all of you. The rehearsal is over. We’ll assemble again tomorrow evening. You, Peterson, as you found it so offensive you can go find a bucket and a mop or something to clear this mess. And look here, Le Feuvre, I hold you personally responsible for causing this disturbance. What you did was unheard of, _against all the rules_ , stupid, gross and clearly a very upsetting experience for young Holmes here. I don’t want to make too much of it but you’re going to properly apologise to the poor boy now and this is never ever going to happen again, understood?”

“Yes, Mr Harrow,” stutters Le Feuvre. During Mr Harrow’s harangue his countenance has gradually developed into a most interesting hue of red and he stands shuffling on his feet awkwardly. 

“Look, Holmes, Sherlock,” he says with averted gaze. “I’m sorry for what I did, honestly. I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. I just wanted to kiss you properly, you see? To make it look convincing, that is. Please, that’s all there is to it.”

“All right, Le Feuvre,” interrupts Mr Harrow. “The gist of your apology is clear, even to Holmes in his present state. Off you go, those trousers are a write-off I’m afraid but that will teach you not to undertake something that devastatingly stupid in the near future again. Better now, Holmes?”

Slowly, the boys file out of the theatre until only Mr Harrow, Sherlock and the disgruntled Peterson, who flicks his eyes up from his task every five seconds to send Sherlock a look of hatred, are left behind.

Mr Harrow sighs. “I’m most sincerely sorry this happened, Holmes. Le Feuvre should have thought before he acted, no pun intended. Of course you’re all boys and the hormones are raging through your bodies but in this he went too far, no matter what his inclinations might be.”

Sherlock retains a steadfast silence. Mr Harrow sighs again. 

“Clearly, one of the themes of the play went to his head. I do hope you won’t hold it against him, Holmes. Your message concerning the matter” – Mr Harrow darts a quick glance at the wet floorboards and Peterson’s retreating back – “must have been clear enough. I don’t think it will be necessary to pursue these events any further, do you?”

He accompanies his question with a pat on Sherlock’s hand to impress him with the advisability of following the suggestion. Sherlock swivels his head from left to right to indicate he understands what Mr Harrow is asking of him. A voice in the back of his head tells him he should protest Mr Harrow’s proposal loudly, he ought to go and phone Mycroft to inform him of Le Feuvre’s fleshy assault, even though Le Feuvre has apologised to him. He breached the armour of Sherlock’s body without his assent. However, Mr Harrow appears to be determined to treat the matter lightly so he guesses he should play along.

Maybe Le Feuvre is right and people actually do that when they kiss. How repellent!

“Do you think you’ll still be able to play the part?” comes Mr Harrow’s next query.

Nodding, Sherlock says “I will. After all, acting is like real life. It’s all about pretending, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mr Harrow affirms. “Yes, it is, Holmes. You’ve had a very nasty experience just now. I will be very, very proud of you if you’re still violently in love with your Romeo on the stage. Do you want me to accompany you back to your house?”

Briefly, Sherlock closes his eyes in despair. As if he needs a babysitter.

“No, thank you, Mr Harrow,” he defers. “I think I’ll be able to find my own way back to my house.”

***

“Oh, shut it, James.” 

Sherlock is about to round the corner of his house when his ears encounter Le Feuvre’s angry shout. He grinds to a halt. The idea of having to walk past his attacker now is odious.

“Oh my fucking God, his face!” Percy-Smith sniggers loudly. “You should have seen the look on the face of the teasing little slut. I warned you though, Leighton. I told you he’s Peter Pan, straight out of Never Neverland.”

“Sod off, will you? He’s what, fourteen? He shared with Fyfe-Rief last year and half the school has had _him_. They must have engaged in a little practicing…”

“Well, he hasn’t,” Percy-Smith laughs. “Your Juliet is a chaste little virgin who’s in for a lovely surprise when Romeo shoves it up her fanny.” 

His voice transforms into a horrible mockery of Sherlock’s as he continues,

“ _it is nor hand, nor foot,  
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part  
Belonging to a man._

Except your Juliet wouldn’t get out of her knickers and if Romeo ripped them off her she would start shouting her fucking head off and Romeo would end stabbed by Capulet with his cock hanging out of his pants. Because he’s got no fucking idea. Really, Leighton, forget the little cocktease. It’s simply never going to happen, he’s a frigging virgin.”

“Don’t you talk about him like that!”

“What? Fucking hell…”

“I don’t want you to talk about him like that. He, he…”

“Oh damn, Leighton, you’re truly fucked up. I know you want to shag him, you don’t have to pretend you _love_ him, you moron.”

“I don’t want to shag him. Not per se,” Le Feuvre interjects.

“Fine, fuck his face, whatever. You want to have it off with him and it’s never going to happen as you’ve proven in the most spectacular manner an hour ago. I’d hang on to those trousers to remind you of his interest, if I were you. And now I wish you would fucking stop mooning about his fucking beautiful lips and his fucking soft curls and his fucking starry eyes!”

“Goddamn you, James. You’re horrid.”

“At least I’m not fucking stupid, like you. You could have anyone, anyone you wanted…”

With these words he stalks away, leaving Le Feuvre behind, to start banging his head against the wall and groaning loudly.

Sherlock’s head is reeling from what he has just heard. That instant, the whole pattern falls together. Le Feuvre’s _loving kiss_ was a testing of the waters, an experiment conducted to find out whether Sherlock was amenable to… and suddenly the voice of one of his test subjects booms in his ear,

_“…and then it was just… way incredible… really, really hot… like your own porno.”_

Maybe Sherlock will even be compensated for his pains with a Mars bar. Except, there is no way this is ever going to happen. If Le Feuvre will so much as _dare_ to look at him in the future Sherlock will walk up to him and knock him to the ground.

Balling his fists so tightly he can feel his nails tearing at the flesh of his palms he starts running, past a startled Le Feuvre, through the front door into the house and up the stairs. He doesn’t slow down until he enters the corridor. Stuck to his door is a note asking him to come down to the Housemaster’s apartment.

Sherlock groans with exasperation, damning Mr Harrow in his thoughts for phoning the Housemaster. This means he will have to spend the next hour nodding to the Housemaster’s interpretation of the events of this evening, even though the man can have no idea what he’s talking about.

He would be so much better off if everyone would just leave him alone. 

With a snarl, Sherlock rips the piece of paper from his door and shoves it into his jacket pocket. His descent down the stairs is much slower than his scaling them just a minute ago.

The Housemaster’s wife answers the door after he’s rung the bell. Her face oozes with sympathy. 

“Hello, Sherlock. How did the rehearsal go? My husband is expecting you. He’s in his study.” 

She accompanies him to the door of darkly-varnished wood and gives it a timid knock before opening it and guiding Sherlock inside.

“Ah, Holmes,” the Housemaster says. Rather unexpectedly he’s perched in one of the easy chairs in front of the fire and pushes himself out of it at their entrance. “Do come in, do come in. Emma, can we have something to drink?”

“Yes, of course, darling. Some lemonade?”

“Lemonade will be fine. In a quarter of an hour, if you please,” the Housemaster dismisses her. “Now Holmes, your brother called me earlier this evening with some grave news. However, I didn’t want to disrupt your rehearsal, seeing as it is one of the last ones, and well, there’s nothing you can do. Everything is all right with your brother and your family I hasten to add. Your brother asked for you to call straightaway once you had returned. I suppose you’ll want to conduct your call in privacy. I will be back with you in fifteen minutes.”

He waits until Sherlock has seated himself behind the desk and started to hit the buttons on the cradle before he hurries out of the room. The door falls shut behind his person. Looking at the door Sherlock replaces the receiver. Whatever it is Mycroft has to tell him, he doesn’t want to hear.

The loud clamour of the phone as it starts ringing nearly makes him jump out of the chair. His hand dashes to the receiver to pick it up and stop the sound.

“Sherlock?” the sound of Mycroft’s voice comes streaming out of the receiver. Gingerly, Sherlock aligns it to his face and speaks into it.

“Yes, Mycroft.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice has lost all its usual composure. “You need to prepare yourself for a great shock, Sherlock, even though it was bound to happen one of these days.”

“Yes.”

“All lives end, Sherlock. Please remember that his was a long and happy one. You should…”

A pounding headache has sprung up behind Sherlock’s eyes, sending stars shooting through his vision.

“It’s Mr Mancini, isn’t it?” he interrupts Mycroft.

“Yes.”

***


	9. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll be alone for the greater part of your life, because that’s the basic condition of us poor human beings. We are born alone and we die alone. Promise me you won’t reject the few offers of friendship you’ll get. Promise me you will cherish them. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful susako betaed this, as always. In addition the masterful stardust_made helped me with this very difficult chapter.
> 
> Thank you, both of you.

“Sherlock, please.” 

With a snarl Sherlock lowers the bow, his violin still stuck between chin and shoulder, the wood warm and alive against his face.

“What?”

“I’ve been hearing these same notes for more than an hour now,” John complains. “It’s driving me nuts. Can’t you at least _play_ something?”

“No, I can’t,” he huffs. “I’m bored. Why don’t _you_ get out if I’m bothering you? Don’t you have to do some shopping or fulfil another quotidian task? Help Mrs Hudson water her plants? I couldn’t help noticing they looked a bit flagged this morning and you know how much she prizes her ‘Candy Fantasy Kiss’ pelargoniums.” 

Mild bewilderment flits over John’s face upon registering his flatmate’s range of knowledge on the geranium family. As usual he takes the information in his stride admirably and puts down his mug on the small table on his left side, a sure indication that he is starting to get wound up.

_How tedious._

“Look here, Sherlock. Why don’t you go and do the shopping for a change if you’re so bored? _I_ would be perfectly fine sitting here doing the crossword if it weren’t for some annoying dick trying to get a rise out of me.”

“That was indeed my aim, John,” scoffs Sherlock. 

“Yeah, well, congratulations. Now lay off and be bored without getting on my bloody nerves.”

They stare each other down – Sherlock eventually relents.

“Oh, all right.” Carefully, he lowers the Guarneri onto his chair and lays down the bow beside it. Then he marches up to the sofa – deliberately stepping onto the coffee table because John hates him doing just that – and all but throws himself down onto the cushions, drawing his fleur-de-lys cushion tight against his chest.

He sniffs.

Behind his back he can hear John picking up the paper and a pen. The sounds of a London afternoon, the rumble of traffic, the screeching of an ambulance, the sudden harsh bark of a laugh of a woman, float into the flat and blessed peace reigns their living room for a few minutes. John hums quietly and Sherlock’s lips curl upon hearing the same scale that started their scuffle.

A few more minutes and the newspaper is tossed aside in a flurry of annoyance. Clearly the intricacies of the crossword have defeated John Hamish Watson once again. 

“Right,” John says. “I’m having a coffee. Do you want one as well?”

Naturally, he doesn’t answer the question.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” John puffs and ambles off to the kitchen. Sherlock wills himself to ignore the ensuing rush of the kettle being filled and the tinkering of earthenware.

To his surprise John doesn’t just deposit his mug on the coffee table when he enters the living room again but rather walks up to their dining-table-cum-desk and starts clearing its surface from some of the worst detritus. Then he delves into the cupboard next to his chair. This is followed by the sounds of a board game being set up, cards shuffled, pieces laid ready. By now Sherlock is rather intrigued what John is up to but obviously he’d rather die on the spot than give the slightest indication his interest might have been roused. 

Finally John sits down and takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. 

“Are you coming?” he asks. Slowly, Sherlock turns his head to glare at John over his shoulder. The table is indeed laid out for a game he doesn’t recognise, the mugs sitting contentedly side by side with two plates, each graced with a slice of Mrs Hudson’s date and walnut cake.

“What?”

“I thought maybe we could play a game to fight the boredom,” gestures John at the board on the table.

“I don’t know any games. Except for chess and you refuse to play that.” Sherlock doesn’t make any attempt at keeping the look of petulance at bay.

“Yeah, well, it’s no fun being check-mated before I’ve even made two moves. Every single time. This one should be right up your street, though. It’s a detective game. I can’t imagine you’ve never heard of it but well, seeing who you are, I guess I can.”

“A detective game?” he asks, incredulous. “Police work is very serious business. Why would anyone turn that into a game? No doubt it’s just some dull variant on hide and seek.” He modulates his voice to the pitch of a hysterical woman. “ _Oh, where did Daddy leave his car keys, Cynthia?_ Really John, even you can’t expect me to stoop so low.”

John grins. “Actually. I think it will appeal to you, Sherlock. You have to solve a murder.”

Upon hearing these words Sherlock snorts loudly. “You’re always telling me off when I’m excited about solving a real murder and now you want me to do so in a game?” 

Nevertheless he unfolds himself from the sofa and slaloms around the coffee table. He picks up his plate and takes a bite of the cake of which Mrs Hudson is justly proud.

“Explain, please,” he orders.

“Yes, well.” John clears his throat briefly. “You must understand, the board represents a big house and there are six guests. Colonel Mustard…”

***

“He _was_ an old man, Sherlock. He had a wonderful life.” Sherlock can feel John’s attentive green eyes resting on him.

“Yes, John, I am aware of that fact,” he answers, a little irritated. “Still, it’s all right for me to be sad, isn’t it?”

With a shy smile John pats him on the shoulder. “Yes, of course it is, Sherlock. He was very important to you, I know. And he had been very important to your Daddy.”

“Yes. Daddy would have been sad,” states Sherlock.

“Yes, he would,” agrees John. He turns back with his rake to stir the smouldering ashes of the leaves he’s burning. Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets. The day is decidedly nippy, even though it’s the beginning of December. The small fire gives off no warmth at all.

“Do you think Mr Talbot will come down for the funeral?”

“Does Mr Talbot even know?” John asks, raking the ashes with long easy strokes. 

“Mycroft wrote to inform him. He asked Mr Mancini’s niece to send Mr Talbot a card as well. I do hope he will be able to make the journey.”

“I’m sure he’ll try to,” John says. “I didn’t even know they knew each other.”

“Mycroft said it was more for the sake of Daddy. Seeing as how they both were his friends.”

“Of course.” 

John coughs and starts raking through the ashes furiously.

“I told Mycroft you should be invited as well then,” Sherlock informs him.

The rake is thrown aside and a spade picked up and put to use shovelling great scoops of earth onto the ashes. Beneath the flannel of his shirt the muscles of John’s back stand out while he works.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.”

More earth is sent flying through the air.

“Hopefully Mr Talbot’s employer won’t mind him going to the funeral. It would be great if you could see him again. And you can say hello from me.” John refuses to look at Sherlock.

“Yes.”

For the next few minutes John shovels more earth than is strictly necessary onto the growing mound covering the ashes while Sherlock stands fidgeting beside him. At last John appears to be satisfied with his labour and thrusts the blade of the spade into the ground.

“I’m going to have me a cuppa,” he says. “Will you come along?”

“Yes, John.”

“I do understand, Sherlock,” John offers. “About Mycroft I mean.”

“Well, I don’t. I think his behaviour towards you is unworthy and low in the extreme.” He spits out the words with vehemence.

John sighs. He picks up the rake, pulls the spade out of the ground and starts walking in the direction of the shed.

“Look, Sherlock. Mycroft has a lot to carry on his shoulders. He never had a proper, carefree youth, not like he should have had, like I’ve had and your Daddy and Mr Talbot and well… like every boy should have. Like you have. You don’t have to worry about all the things Mycroft had to worry about since your Daddy died, worry about them constantly.”

Sherlock sniffs rather loudly to specify his opinion on Mycroft’s worries.

“I mean it, Sherlock,” John says, his tone rather fierce. “Only imagine what it must be like for him to see his adored mother, the woman your Daddy loved so, reduced to a shadow. You, well, things have never been good between the two of you. That’s something I’ve never understood because you’re his spitting image. Christ, every time I look at you I’m sure it’s him I’m seeing except I know it isn’t, if you catch my meaning. So your mother ought to be content she’s got you left at least, but she isn’t, and that’s killing Mycroft.”

“And that gives him leave to be mean to you?” asks Sherlock, disbelieving.

“He isn’t being mean. Not deliberately. He doesn’t care for me but I can follow his reasoning. Follow it perfectly well. The alternative would be for me to leave. I could never do that. So Mycroft can do whatever he wants. As long as he will let me live here I don’t care, not really.”

***

“Sherlock, so good you were willing to come.” Mr Whitall steps aside and motions for Sherlock to enter. After closing the front door he hastens to throw open the door of the living room. On the doorstep Sherlock blinks around Mr Mancini’s living room, which is filled with a dozen or so of people. 

“Please.” Mr Whitall drops a hand on his shoulder and pushes gently to guide him into the room. Inside, twelve pairs of eyes swivel in his direction. “Don’t be shy, we’ve been eagerly waiting your arrival. Ladies, gentlemen, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, we can see that,” a man utters in a gruff voice.

“Hello Sherlock,” one of the women says, patting her hand on the seat of the chair beside her. “You can sit beside me.”

Sherlock walks over towards her and holds out his hand to her. She laughs.

“Oh, what a charming boy you are. Do sit down. We all know who you are and we will introduce ourselves to you in due time.”

“Yes. Someone give the boy a cup of tea.” Mr Whitall glances around the room and the man sitting closest to the door to the kitchen stands up to make his way there. Others resume the conversations they were engaged in prior to Sherlock’s entrance.

“We’re going to play for Mr Mancini,” the woman next to Sherlock says. “And we want you to play with us.”

Sherlock inclines his head, tears smarting behind his eyes. “Thank you. That’s… I wasn’t allowed to play at my father’s funeral.”

The woman looks sympathetic. “And you would have wanted to,” she states. “Oh dear. Well, it must have been a rather grand affair and you must have been, when was it, oh yes, eight years ago. So you were what age?”

“I turned seven the day my father was murdered. I’ll be fifteen next month.”

She nods and gazes at him, her eyes big and serene. “I see,” she says. “You know, your father and Mr Mancini were very close. None of us,” a sweep of her hand to encompass the persons in the room, “even though some managed to provide themselves with a distinguished career, were as dear to him as your father was. We’re all quite jealous of him.”

She laughs again. “Mr Mancini always spoke so highly of you. You were going to be everything your father had decided to spurn.” Suddenly she falls silent and continues more thoughtfully, “you will be true, won’t you? You’ll have to.”

“I will,” promises Sherlock. “Though you should know my father had no choice.”

“Yes,” the woman sighs. “I know the story. He must have been very unhappy…” With a sudden jerk she clasps her hand to her mouth, “oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No. Never mind. You were honest. Most people aren’t.”

The woman scrutinises his face. She opens her mouth as if to speak before shutting it again.

“Great, now we’re all here,” Mr Whitall cuts in, clapping his hands. “Sherlock, let me explain to you why we’ve invited you to meet us. As you’ve probably gathered we were all pupils of Mr Mancini, some of us still play the violin, others have exchanged our wonderful instrument for the violoncello,” a bow in the direction of a couple near the bow-window, “or the double bass,” a bow to the man with the gruff voice.

“Mr Mancini’s niece has asked me to organise a concert for the service. We’ve been discussing the programme and had just decided upon Bach’s third _Brandenburg concerto_ and Corelli’s _Christmas concerto_. With some slight adjustments those two would work perfectly well for our improvised ensemble.”

“Not perfectly well, Daniel. We lack a harpsichord,” one of the men says in a heavy German accent.

“That’s why I said we are but an _improvised_ ensemble, Heinrich,” Mr Whitall responds affably. He focuses his attention back on Sherlock. “Drink your tea first and then I suggest we start with the Corelli. We would be very happy if you would play the first soloist’s part.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock queries, one of his last conversations with Mr Mancini popping up in his head.

Mr Whitall smiles. “We’re perfectly sure, Sherlock. I’ve heard you play, remember? And we’re all doing this together for Mr Mancini, so we will be happy to help you through it, should you need our support. But I’m convinced you will do fine.”

Portable music stands are produced out of neat little boxes. The double bass player walks over to the dining room to fetch his instrument which takes up a considerable portion of the living room once he’s installed himself properly. Others finish their tea slowly.

“Right everyone,” Mr Whitall’s voice rings through the room. “Shall we begin?”

Sherlock sets his cup aside and hoists his violin case onto his knees. The violin, his precious birthday present, glows against the purple velvet lining. He lifts it up, enjoying the smooth feel of the curved wood in his hands. On the other side of the room a choked gasp erupts from an anguished throat.

“My god, the boy got the Guarneri.”

***

The minister bows to the congregation and steps from the dais. Behind his back Sherlock can sense Mr Whitall standing up and ferreting his way out of the pew.

“It’s our turn now,” Sherlock whispers to Mycroft.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s hand darts out to hold Sherlock’s arm for a moment, “I know you’ll do your old teacher proud.”

A sharp jolt of gratitude leaps up in Sherlock’s throat. All the anger and exasperation Mycroft’s words and actions have so often ignited in him lately are doused by Mycroft’s understanding of the bond between his teacher – Daddy’s teacher – and Sherlock. The respect Sherlock felt for Mr Mancini and the love Mr Mancini bore Sherlock – and the Sherlock he was named after. Mycroft may understand little about music but apparently he recognises how important it was – no, _is_ – to the three of them, and how desperately Sherlock wants to succeed now. Not for himself, but for Mr Mancini, and for Daddy.

As he’s holding his violin case he can’t clasp his hand over Mycroft’s. Instead, he bends and kisses Mycroft on his cheek. Mycroft’s face flushes with pleasure, his open display of emotion tugging at the memory of what they were once – would still be, if he could help it – which lays buried deep within Sherlock. Oh, whatever happened to sour their relationship so?

“Go now,” Mycroft murmurs, giving him a gentle shove.

Sherlock walks over towards the dais and seats himself next to Mr Whitall who’s already busy adjusting the music stand in front of them.

“Will this do, Sherlock?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr Whitall.” He arranges his violin beneath his chin, applies the bow, and nods. They work through the scale in unison. Sherlock rises and walks around the small orchestra, allowing the individual players to attune their instruments to his. When he’s satisfied they’re all aligned he returns to his chair. 

Mr Whitall leverages himself up and starts addressing the people seated in the pews, extolling on Mr Mancini’s worth to his pupils and informing them of the pieces they will perform in their teacher’s memory. 

Sherlock stares at the floor between his feet first, but after a moment his eyes start to roam the church of their own accord. Inside his chest his heart has started a wild insistent rhythm. He should concentrate on the task ahead, Mr Mancini deserves the best he’s got to give, but he can’t quell the fountain of desperate hope that’s kept springing up once he learned Mycroft has arranged for Mr Talbot to be invited to the funeral. To be with Mr Talbot again, if only for a few hours, to hear the dry, slightly detached voice that’s so often praised him… and berated him. Over the years Sherlock has managed to wrap up in a shroud all the jealousy of the boy who’s now enjoying the benefit of Mr Talbot’s education. Deep inside a hidden corner of himself he stashed the package, and now it has freed itself from the burial chamber and presented itself, green-eyed and fierce, to joust with the grief he feels for Mr Mancini for the foremost place in his emotions.

His gaze flits over the assembly in front of him once more but doesn’t find the longed-for unruly mop of grey hair. Dejected, he repositions his violin beneath his chin and applies his bow to the strings.

It would have been too much to expect probably and he should concentrate on performing for Mr Mancini. Mr Whitall positions himself beside Sherlock again. He nods to him, once, and the ensemble starts chasing Corelli’s elegant notes through the church, sending them ricocheting of the walls and the pillars and the rafters, spiralling upwards higher and higher up to the heavens until they bounce back from the roof and descend on the small coffin containing the body of the man who taught them to play their instruments like angels.

***

“Sherlock, my boy.”

“Mr Talbot!”

Oh, it’s him, it’s really, really him, the whole cadaverous length of him standing there grinning down on Sherlock, grinning at Mycroft. A little older, no, much older, he’s got a slight stoop that wasn’t there before and there’s a certain tiredness around his eyes, but it _is_ Mr Talbot – the grey herringbone tweed jacket visible beneath an equally grey bulky coat – and twirling a cigarette between the fingers of his right hand.

Sherlock thrusts his violin case into Mycroft’s direction and launches himself to throw his arms around Mr Talbot’s neck. Stale smoke mixed with the stark smell of Mr Talbot himself enters his nose and he inhales deeply, to freshly memorise the scent from a time when his life was so much better.

“Where were you? I didn’t see you in the church. I looked everywhere. Oh, Mycroft…” Hugging Mr Talbot closely Sherlock swivels his head to search out his brother. Mycroft is standing near, the expression on his face distilled pure pleasure.

“There, there.” Laughing Mr Talbot disentangles himself from Sherlock’s grasp and turns to Mycroft. After a slight hesitation both move forward and gripe each other’s outstretched hands. Mr Talbot brings up his other hand to clap Mycroft on the shoulder.

“I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to find you both looking so well,” Mr Talbot says, looking them both up and down. He lets go of Mycroft and his arms encompass Sherlock again.

“My boy, when I received Mycroft’s letter I felt such sorrow for you. To lose your beloved teacher so suddenly. And honestly, I was amazed by your progress, in just a few years your playing has improved so much. Not that I can pretend to know a lot about it. Mr Mancini must have been exceedingly proud of you.”

Sherlock blushes upon hearing the praise. 

“He was. Though he always told me I didn’t try hard enough.” Mr Talbot inclines his head, no doubt to hide a smile upon hearing these words. “You hid behind a pillar,” continues Sherlock. 

“Yes. I had hoped you would have been asked to play something and I didn’t want to break your concentration. You did give Mr Mancini your best, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes. Oh, Mr Talbot, please, will you come back to the house with us?”

The expression on Mr Talbot’s face darkens. 

“No chance of that,” he answers. “My employer couldn’t very well deny me visiting an old friend’s funeral. However, if I did wish to annoy the man, visiting the home of my former employer would be the surest approach. Never ask for more than you can have, Sherlock. Enjoy the moment rather. I’m here for you now.”

“I do, of course I do but, oh Mr Talbot…” Sherlock grasps his teacher’s hand. “Even though I’ve always written you everything you can’t understand how much I abhor that horrid, horrid school and everything in it. I miss you so much, every day.” 

Tears of frustration rise up to his eyes and under Mr Talbot’s kind gaze he can’t contain them any longer. It’s a funeral so he reckons he’s permitted to cry, even though they’ve already left the open grave behind them and moved on to the boundary of the small cemetery. 

“Sherlock,” breaks in Mycroft, looking very discomfited all of a sudden, standing there with his hands full with the violin case and his umbrella. “Don’t do this to yourself, to us. You’d better take heed of Mr Talbot’s advice.”

“Go away, would you?” Sherlock bites at him. “I don’t need _your_ advice, certainly. You’re the one who’s keeping me there.”

He knows the accusation is unfair, fully unjustified, he realises he’s being unreasonable for the alternative is unthinkable, but that moment he’s past caring about the shades of right and wrong and the whole spectrum of greys hovering between those two disparities.

“Sherlock,” Mr Talbot chides him, laying a calming hand on his arm. “Mycroft, could you leave us alone for a minute?”

“Of course.” Mycroft bows stiffly and moves off; Mr Talbot’s gaze lingers after him.

“He looks relatively well,” he comments. “His boyfriend must do him a world of good.”

Sherlock snorts dismissively. “Michael is nothing but a stupid moron.”

“My my my, you _did_ learn something in that detestable school after all,” says Mr Talbot, wiggling his eyebrows. He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment in obvious enjoyment of the taste. 

“Let us sit down for a moment, Sherlock. Then you can explain to me properly why you do persist in your ungracious attitude with regard to Mycroft’s companion. Also, while you’re at it, I would very much like you to enlighten me as to why you can’t follow Mycroft’s example and appreciate the school for what it _can_ give you?”

“Because it can’t give me anything! It’s nothing like what we did together in the school room. It’s just stupid and dull and tedious, no stimulation at all.”

“I’m very sorry to hear you say so, my boy. And yet, I have to disagree with you. The school can give you, no, does give you something I would never have been able to provide you with… the chance to work out how ordinary society works, how ordinary people work. You should have discerned by now you were born into a world of exceptional privilege, Sherlock, privilege and seclusion. To let you grow up in that sheltered domain which is so at odds with the world would be a huge disservice to you. Had your father still lived I would have counselled him against keeping you at home after you’d turned twelve. You need that school to teach you the ways of the world.”

“The ways of the world disgust me. I don’t want a part of it,” Sherlock cries out.

“Well, that’s too bad, Sherlock. Because you _are_ a part of it,” Mr Talbot says calmly.

“I don’t have to be. I can stay at home.”

“What? With your mother?” Mr Talbot raises his eyebrows in disbelief. The effect is almost comical, Sherlock would laugh if their discussion didn’t affect him so deeply. All he wants to do is to cry and cry while hugging his beloved tutor who sits berating him in mild tones. 

“Then what are you going to become, Sherlock? A recluse like John? Clinging to a place where you’re unhappy and unwanted because you’re afraid of fending a living for yourself elsewhere?” Mr Talbot’s gaze flits over Sherlock.

“John is not unwanted,” Sherlock protests.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock,” comes the immediate correction. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Now you’re angry with me.”

Mr Talbot’s hand brushes his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “I’m never angry with you, my boy,” he says, and Sherlock knows he’s speaking the truth just from listening to the warmth in his former tutor’s voice. “Just worried. You’re so clever and yet you seem so determined to make life very difficult for yourself, and what for? Obstinately holding onto your coveted state of intellectual exclusivity won’t bring you any happiness.”

“Oh, Mr Talbot, if only you knew…” The words burst from Sherlock’s mouth.

“But my dear boy, I _do_ know. As does Mycroft, and your father did as well. Do you really believe Mycroft doesn’t see Michael is no match for him in so many ways? Except he brings Mycroft what we all need, a sense of comfort and camaraderie that needs no further elaboration.”

“I don’t need that. I’d rather be alone…”

“Sherlock.” Mr Talbot grasps both of Sherlock’s hands, squeezing them hard in an attempt to convey through touch what he can’t communicate by means of words. 

“You’ll be alone for the greater part of your life, because that’s the basic condition of us poor human beings. We are born alone and we die alone. Promise me you won’t reject the few offers of friendship you’ll get. Promise me you will cherish them. Please.”

***

Victor promised and look where that got him. His only consolation is that Mr Talbot would have been thoroughly disappointed as well. Except, he’s glad Mr Talbot was already dead at the time. How he would have hated to know the boy he had helped raise was capable of such a despicable act. 

***

Towering high above the city on Bart’s rooftop he looks down on John who’s pleading with him in a broken voice, begging him to reconsider, to stop lying to him.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met – the first time we met – you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

That instant sees the glint of a rifle in the window of the building on the other side of West Smithfield, aiming for John. He can’t allow that to happen. The thought of having to live on… without John… alone…

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”

“No,” John almost shouts before he manages to get a grip on himself again. “All right, stop it now.” 

He moves angrily. After all he’s a man of action, a soldier, always willing to enter the fray, to just stand there and watch – helplessly – is a torture to him and yet Sherlock must do this. He must fake his own death to protect his best friend – to protect the few true friends he has got – and honestly, it isn’t until that moment that Sherlock understands what Mr Talbot meant when he told him “We are born alone and we die alone.”

***

“I really meant you no harm, Holmes… Sherlock. You do realise that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, Le Feuvre.”

Le Feuvre’s urgent pleading would be more convincing if he’d stop slanting his gaze towards Sherlock. In the mirror in front of which they’re both seated applying their make-up, Sherlock catches every sly look and the slight trembling of Le Feuvre’s hand while he adjusts his cap on top of his head.

“Do you want a hand with your headdress?”

Sherlock tugs at the heavy wig that sits hugging his scalp in a surprisingly warm and unpleasant manner.

“No, thank you. I can do it myself.”

“Sherlock, please…” Le Feuvre makes to grasp Sherlock’s hand. He snatches it away and hides it behind his back.

“Don’t,” he spits. “Just don’t.”

***

“ _… With their intoxicating enactment of the romance between the star-cross’d lovers_ Leighton Le Feuvre _(Romeo) and_ Sherlock Holmes _(Juliet) set a standard for acting previously unattained in this school. A sigh of contentment escaped from the public’s throat as they witnessed the first tender proof of the puppy love between the famous paramours…_ ”

Mr Harrow’s voice rises happily while he sits reading aloud the mindless drivel some despicable _idiot_ has seen fit to fill the columns of the school’s twice-weekly newspaper with. 

“Excellent, excellent,” their teacher cries. “What an invigorating beginning to the new term, wouldn’t you say so, boys? Le Feuvre and Holmes, I congratulate you once more upon the manner in which you both managed to overcome that little unpleasantness during the rehearsals.”

With a flourish he tosses the paper aside and picks up a copy of their next play.

“Now,” he says. “I do wonder what thoughts you two have formed upon that other unhappy couple? How are you going to convey the world-weariness of Alceste to the public, Le Feuvre? And Holmes, did you think about the lovely Célimène while munching your Christmas pudding? How do you propose to tackle the role of that wily social flirt?”

***

“Holmes, we have a problem.”

Sherlock lifts his head and flicks his eyes up towards his chemistry teacher.

“It’s Mrs Beckett,” Mr Beckett confides in him. “Or rather, her bridge game.”

Slowly, having but the vaguest of ideas what the man is talking about, Sherlock nods, hoping his silence will encourage Mr Beckett to elaborate.

“You see,” Mr Beckett obliges, “the noble game of bridge is one of those innocent pastimes Mrs Beckett likes to indulge in, rather a lot. Now one of her fellow enthusiasts will be following her husband in two weeks time to Cardiff, the poor people, and Mrs Beckett’s table finds itself without one of the four necessary bridgeheads.”

_Oh, does this mean? At last…_

Solemnly, Sherlock tips his head, sympathy for Mrs Beckett’s plight oozing from his features.

“Yes.” Mr Beckett scrapes his throat and ogles Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

“You’re finally getting some results, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mr Beckett.”

“And you do know how to lock a door?”

“I do, Mr Beckett.”

“Fine.” Mr Beckett pulls at his left earlobe, regarding Sherlock from behind his glasses.

On his chair Sherlock remains perfectly quiet, not daring to break the thoughtful silence. After what feels like an eternity Mr Beckett’s hand delves into his right hand pocket and is brought up again holding a key.

Fighting his instinct to grab it Sherlock concentrates on dousing the fire that insists on re-igniting itself in his eyes.

“You do realise the enormity of this step and the great amount of trust I put in you in offering this key. For your information, I’ve never placed my trust in a boy in quite this way before, Holmes. All, I ask of you is not to disappoint me.”

***

Back in his room, in the safe sanctity of his bed, he keeps producing the key to marvel at it and exhilarate upon the knowledge that at long last he has gained the coveted free access to the lab. The day after tomorrow he’s meeting Reg and his aide (whose name is Geoffrey, shortened to Geoff) in the copse and he can ask them at long last to keep their part of the deal they struck up more than half a year ago. He’s been patient, so very, very patient. Mycroft ought to be proud of him.

It’s already two o’clock and he’s still awake, counting his stock of pills, gazing at his key then taking inventory of his supply of fresh needles and syringes before he’s back to fingering his key some more.

***

“Jesus fucking Christ, you freak, you can’t be real.”

“Oh, come on, Reg. We promised. He gave us plenty. You were the one started this.”

“Yeah, but... “

“Maybe I should take out some of yours first,” suggests Sherlock to Geoff. Frankly, he hadn’t counted on the boy’s relaxed acceptance of his announcement, as he was the one who bitterly opposed the scheme initially.

“I’m afraid of needles,” Reg confesses, obvious panic distorting his features.

“You don’t have to look,” Sherlock soothes him. “I’ll do your friend first and you can ask him whether it hurt. It won’t.”

Inwardly he’s seething at the sheer despicable cowardice and deceitfulness of the braggart, accepting Sherlock’s pills with an easy smile and the assurance of delivery, all the while knowing he was going to abscond on the bargain they’d struck the minute Sherlock would call upon him. His anger flares as sharp and fast as the edge of a knife. At last the chance to get even has arrived and he’s not going to let it slip through his fingers.

Geoff has already shrugged off his jacket and is now rolling up the sleeve of his left arm. Sherlock whips out a notebook and a pen from his pocket. 

“When did you last take a pill and what kind?” he asks, and notes down his subject’s answer under the section devoted to Geoffrey. In his notebook he’s already taken down their family history, insofar as they were able to provide him with it, as well as the diseases they’ve already suffered. Privately, he considers his whole venture of this project so far exceptional. In his endeavour he’s shown cunning, restraint, determination and the willingness to take great risks in order to obtain the desired result. What a pity nobody except for these two _idiots_ are aware of the existence of his grand scheme.

After stashing away his notebook Sherlock draws forth a tie to bind off Geoff’s upper arm and prepares a needle.

“You don’t have to watch,” he tells him.

“I’d rather.”

Shrugging his indifference at the answer Sherlock proceeds to tap out a vein and plunges in the needle. As he expected, Geoff doesn’t even hiss.

“And?” asks Sherlock.

“Didn’t feel a thing,” Geoff grins back at him. To reward him Sherlock stashes five pills into his outstretched hand. Together they turn towards Reg who’s hanging against a tree, looking sick.

“Hey you, shithead. Your turn. Mr Creepy over here knows his business.” While donning his jacket Geoff makes for Reg and starts pulling his jacket from his shoulders. His friend is clearly too overcome by nausea to resist. While Sherlock prepares the other needle, Geoff rolls up Reg’s sleeve with a certain relishing eagerness. With an ungracious moan Reg allows his knees to buckle under him and he slides down on the ground.

“I... I... this is better,” he mumbles

“You can’t lie down like that,” Sherlock says. “It’s easier when you’re sitting up, the blood will flow better.”

“Jesus... fucking...”

With Geoff’s help Sherlock manages to wrangle Reg’s limp body until his donor sits slumped up with his back to a tree. His arm is forced straight by Sherlock’s aide and Sherlock binds the tie around Reg’s arm. What he’d like to do is to give the knot an extra tug but he reminds himself he must be very gentle now in the hope that a painless procedure will overcome Reg’s misgivings and have him happily offering a vein to tap at Sherlock’s every beck and call.

“Don’t look,” he warns. Unnecessarily, as Reg has his eyes shut tight and his head turned aside, straining the muscles of his neck in what appears to be an endeavour to pivot his head a hundred and eighty degrees.

“Oh, please, come on...” he groans from between teeth gritted in agony.

“I’ve already finished,” Sherlock tells him, popping the little plastic cap onto the test tube.

“What? I didn’t feel a fucking thing!” The open astonishment on Reg’s face is almost comical.

“Told you, didn’t I?” It’s hard not to sound smug, but then he isn’t really trying. 

“Here.” With a regal gesture Sherlock hands Reg his reward, enjoying the heady feeling of power. Is this the sensation Mycroft is hungering for with all his talk of the pre-destined burden to rule over a public that’s hardly aware of its own goals and wishes in life, he wonders? Well, the phenomenon certainly has its merits. Though he suspects lording it over others, laying down the law for them, will quickly lose its appeal for _him_.

“When are you going to take a pill?” he queries.

“How about now?” Reg retorts. “I fucking well need one, you spastic.”

Apparently, he’s recovered his usual mental faculties again. Eyebrow raised in haughty disdain, Sherlock stares him in the eye. He’s not afraid of the pair of them, not any more. Let them ridicule him and call him all the names their limited, filth-obsessed minds can think of.  
In the end he’s their master and they’re nothing but a pair of stupid base slaves of their bodily desires roaming the school and providing him with their blood whenever he is in need of it.

“Fine,” Sherlock nods in pleasant agreement. “I’ll meet you here in five hours then.”

***

Goggling with dismay into the microscope again Sherlock rearranges the slide but the smear of blood doesn’t change its aspect. 

Nothing!

He can detect no differences at all in the properties of the blood taken before they took a pill and after. 

“Oh, oh, oh... _damn_ ,” he shouts, jumping up from his stool. The sudden motion sends it crashing down to the floor with a highly satisfactory bang. The next second he stands petrified, forcing himself to calm down. _Breathe deeply_ , he instructs himself, _relax._

True, he’s suffered a severe setback but wrecking the lab won’t give him any results either. Obviously, he made some wrong assumptions. What he should do is study a bit more and find out what he missed. In the meantime he must keep Mr Beckett safe and snug in the comforting knowledge his star pupil isn’t letting him down.

Heaving a last deep sigh of intense annoyance Sherlock bends down to upright the stool.

***

The digits on his little clock announce that it’s eleven thirty three at night when the door to Sherlock’s room is thrown open and a number of big boys burst in. Most of them are laughing and telling the others in sniggering half-whispers to be silent while dragging along a body that’s resisting their haulage. In the confusing jumble of giggling undertones two voices stand out: those of Percy-Smith and Le Feuvre. 

“No, don’t,” the last one is begging of the others. “Don’t, please...”

Bolting upright in his bed Sherlock flicks on the light.

Two boys pounce on him, grappling for his limbs. Their movements are uncoordinated and they’re shaking with noiseless hilarity. Sherlock opens his mouth to scream, but a meaty hand is clasped over the lower half of his face, cutting off his air flow.

“Quiet,” its owner hisses and Sherlock’s eyes fly wide open, aghast at the sheer menace pervading the instruction, for he doesn’t know this boy. “Oh, shut it, Leighton,” the boy addresses Le Feuvre next, poking Sherlock in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“Yes, shut it, Leighton,” jeers Percy-Smith. “You’re a fucking wanker. I’ve fucking had it listening to you going on about fucking _beautiful_ Sherlock, _marvellous_ Sherlock, fucking _lovely, lovely_ Sherlock. Oh, just look at his curls, so soft. And those eyes, they’re the colour of the ocean, or no, a volcano lake, or was it a grey pearl? Jesus... ” His voice spitting out his disgust is as soft and dark as a predator circling its prey. Having delivered his tirade, he raises a bottle to his mouth and his Adam’s apple jumps in a frenzy as he takes big gulps of the liquid inside. 

During the attack the one struggling with holding Sherlock’s arms down brought his head close to Sherlock’s for a moment. The smell of liquor from his breath still imbues Sherlock in damp smog of poisonous gas. In their brief wrestling match for dominance Sherlock has managed to kick one assailant in the groin, but it is a lost battle from the start; there’s two of them and they’re both bigger. All that his resistance gets him are a few slaps in the face and some blows to his stomach amidst a swift flow of hushed curses.

Their elaborate effort to remain quiet throughout is what frightens Sherlock the most.

“Don’t!” Le Feuvre cries. Clumsily he attempts to drag one of the boys off Sherlock, but a shove in the chest sends him crashing to the floor. He’s obviously just as hideously drunk as the rest of them.

“Just look at you,” Percy-Smith sneers. “Juliet’s gallant saviour, and just as effective as Shakespeare imagined him. You disgust me, Leighton, you really do. Let me teach you a lesson for the rest of your life. If you want something you should fucking have a go at it and take it. Nobody is looking out for you, Leighton _dear_. No one out there is going to take care of you. No one except for your best friends, that is. And we’re your best friends, your very fucking best friends, Leighton.” 

Taking another swig from his bottle Percy-Smith ambles over to the bed and stares down impassively into Sherlock’s face. “Oh,” he says, as if reminding himself belatedly of an important fact. “I forgot the cheekbones, how silly of me to forget those, the cheekbones... For of course _they_ are fucking incredible as well.” He accompanies his commentary with two hard slaps that make Sherlock’s head spin, one to each cheekbone, inadvertently hitting the hand still covering Sherlock’s mouth as well.

“Sorry about that,” he smiles. 

With an unsteady finger he pokes at Sherlock’s hipbone next.

“Get those off.” 

The boy sitting astride Sherlock’s legs starts tugging at the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers. Sherlock contorts his body in every possible shape to evade his assailant, but the bottoms are dragged off regardless. 

“No... James. Stop!” From his position on the floor Le Feuvre throws himself in the direction of Percy-Smith’s legs. His ill-fated attempt ends with him being kicked in the stomach. Sherlock watches in horror the greenish colour overtaking Le Feuvre’s face before he throws up over Sherlock’s desk chair.

“You’re disgusting, Leighton,” is Percy-Smith’s comment. “Pathetic and weak and fucking disgusting. Supposing yourself in love...” The last two words are spoken with particularly vehement hatred. The next moment he throws Le Feuvre a fond smile. “Look here. I’m only trying to help you,” he continues in a more reasonable tone. “I’m just going to give him the extra push. Once he’s broken in, he’ll be ready to serve all your needs. That’s what friends do for each other, don’t they? Help each other out?”

His words add fresh fuel to Sherlock’s endeavours to free himself. With his teeth he gnashes at the hand clamped over his mouth while his hands and feet scrabble for anything to kick and scratch and _hurt_. However, the thugs hanging onto him are like weighty anchors shoring him to the boulder of his bed.

Next to him Le Feuvre lurches at Percy-Smith again, but now the fifth boy, who up till now has been a silent spectator knocking back great swigs from his bottle, enters the fray, locking his arms around Le Feuvre’s chest. 

“Easy, Leighton,” he tells him. “You don’t have to do a fucking thing, just enjoy the show.”

At long last Sherlock manages to wrestle his mouth away from the hand that has been smothering him.

“Help,” he cries. The next second another hard slap to his face forces stinging tears from his eyes.

“Shut that pretty mouth, fuckface,” Percy-Smith growls. “Jacket off as well,” he tells the others. Sherlock is hoisted up into a sitting position and his pyjama top is ripped open and wrenched from his arms while Percy-Smith is holding him by the throat, shutting up his windpipe.

“There, that’s better,” he comments once Sherlock’s clothing is shed completely, the items tossed to the floor. “Oh,” he coos, “just feel, Leighton — all that lovely virginal skin, like satin, really.” He snatches Le Feuvre’s hand, which is hanging like a limp rag from the end of his arm, and drags it along Sherlock’s leg in a mocking imitation of a caress. Sherlock’s flesh recoils from the touch, shrivelling in on itself.

“There, there,” Percy-Smith murmurs. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you fucking wished for. And who’s giving it to you, huh?”

The surface of Sherlock’s thigh is splashed by the tears falling down from Le Feuvre’s face. “Please, James,” he sobs. “Please, don’t... Please stop it. I don’t want it... Please...”

“Well, it’s rather obvious our little virgin doesn’t want it, either,” Percy-Smith observes, gazing down at Sherlock. “Isn’t that so, my darling little Peter Pan?” he asks with exaggerated concern.

All Sherlock can do is look up with loathing at his tormentor. If his limbs were locked in heavy chains they couldn’t have been attached more securely to the bed and his only ally is rendered useless by drink and worse, self-pity. He knows what Percy-Smith is going to do to him, in front of all these witnesses.

_“…and then it was just… way incredible… really, really hot… like your own porno.”_

Sherlock closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable. His hatred and disgust are all he has left to protect him against the onslaught on his being. They are locked deep inside of him and whatever may be done to him, those will remain unreachable, the very core of him. Everything else, his whole body, is nothing but transport.

Still, his philosophical surrender to the inevitable can’t prepare him for what follows.

“I’ll have his mouth,” Percy-Smith snarls. “I’ve been hearing so much about those fucking _glorious_ lips.” He turns towards the others. “What do you reckon?”

“They look all right to me,” the boy holding the still struggling Le Feuvre says.

“Just be quick about it, will you?” the one holding Sherlock’s upper body down says. “We’ve been in here far too long already.”

“Oh, but we can share,” cajoles Percy-Smith. “Come on then.”

Sudden comprehension flares up in Sherlock, causing a wave of nausea to rise in his stomach. If only he could make himself throw up in this moment, hopefully he would send them fleeing from his room in revulsion. But try as he might, nothing comes up. Instead he’s jerked upright and made to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Look Leighton, this is the way to go about it,” crows Percy-Smith. He tips up Sherlock’s head and bends his face down to it. 

“James, you’ve gone far enough,” Le Feuvre moans from his temporary prison. “Let him go, please...”

“Oh, sod off, you fucking puking wanker. Just shut up.” Percy-Smith fists a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanks his head back, hard. “And you,” he threatens, “not a word, and you’re going to take what I give you. All of it, you hear?”

With his free hand he undoes the button and the zip of his trousers and reaches inside to tug his member out of his briefs.

“Jesus, Percy-Smith,” the boy still hanging onto Le Feuvre says. “You’re not really going to do it?”

“Course I am.” Percy-Smith gasps. Horrified, Sherlock stares at the monstrosity Percy-Smith is cradling in his hand. Two thick veins throb along the length, the glistening red tip glaring up at him.

With a swift movement Percy-Smith locks the point of Sherlock’s nose between his fingers. Instant panic threatens to overtake Sherlock and he initiates another struggle, but soon finds this is only driving the fresh air from his lungs even faster so he gives up, concentrating on getting as much air as possible instead. Even so, the air actually allowed to him is too little and he feels himself suffocating, succumbing to inevitable obliviousness; welcoming it as a means of escape from his ordeal.

He’s only faintly aware of the body still supporting his when the hands fall away from his face and he heaves, trying for a big lungful of breath. 

Instead, his mouth is stuffed with a great ram of meat. His first instinct is to gag. Saliva floods what little space is left empty in his mouth, his throat working convulsively to rid itself of the sickening intrusion. 

The smell, the sickening smell entering his nose… 

“Oh... yes... fuck,” Percy-Smith groans. “Jesus...” He pulls back, allowing Sherlock a brief moment to get his hopes up – they’ve had what they came for; they’ve ridiculed him, he’s naked and abused, what more can they want of him? – before plunging back in, forcing his way even deeper. In front of his eyes the unruly swirl of Percy-Smith’s pubic hair backs away again as he drags his member out a little. 

To avoid the sickening sight he swivels his gaze, only to find that the boy that held his legs has let go of them and is propped on the bed on his knees, stroking his member with quick tugs.

Another wild shove of Percy-Smith’s hips and for one tiny moment he’s sure he is drowning again. It was the same sensation, wasn’t it? All his breath gone from his lungs until he felt they would burst... 

But no, when he was drowning, when he was grappling for survival with the great revolting mass of Browning’s body, Daddy had appeared. Daddy, his arms open wide for Sherlock to jump into and be safe. Surely Daddy wouldn’t come now; he wouldn’t want to be a witness to this. Oh, if only he could be here now and annihilate them all...

A shout somewhere in the room, and Percy-Smith’s body crashes into him, suffocating him. Sherlock clamps his jaws in panic, his teeth biting into flesh. The coppery taste of blood hits his tongue as the revolting body part is at long last out of his mouth and he splutters and spits, then pushes himself up to heave great gasps of breath. On the bed Percy-Smith is screaming, no — he’s howling with his hands clasped in front of his groin, blood seeping through his fingers. “He bit me,” he cries, “the little son of a bitch bit me!” 

His accomplices have backed away, one of them heading for the door. The boy who sat masturbating is reordering his clothes with swift movements, completely sobered up.

In the corner of the room Le Feuvre sways with a stupid grin on his lips, staring down in wonder at his hands. 

“Serves you right, James,” he tells the shrieking Percy-Smith. Further ignoring his hollering ‘friend’, he reaches to whisk Sherlock’s dressing gown from its hook and steps up to Sherlock, offering it to him. 

“Here, you had better dress,” he mumbles, averting his eyes in absurd modesty. 

That instant the door gets thrown open again, hitting the boy who was trying to escape into the face. The House Master takes a couple of steps into the room, the prefect hovering behind him in the corridor.

The House Master’s gaze swivels around the room, surveying the whole scene. 

“Dear God in heaven,” he grinds out. “What has happened here?”

***

“Sherlock?”

The gentle questioning voice rouses Sherlock back to wakefulness. Firstly, he’s aware of the pain in his jaws and throat, then he notices how gloriously easy it is to breathe. His nose is tickled by the smell of freshly starched sheets. The hand cradling his is soft and full of silent apology.

He opens his eyes and they meet Mycroft’s. 

“Mycroft,” he says.

“Sherlock.” His brother sobs. “Oh my god, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.”

***


	10. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re speaking in tongues, John. Please do me the kindness of phrasing your opinion in more comprehensive language, or even better, don’t, as I’m not interested in hearing it anyway.” He flatly refuses to listen to John’s incorrect assumptions about his lack of interest in certain areas that John, and every other person of their acquaintance, deems so frightfully important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for the delay in posting a new chapter. RL and the content of this chapter didn't help for its speedy conclusion. Next chapter might take even longer as a holiday will be happening soon.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience.

“Oh God.” 

The woman, Imogen Grace, sits moaning on the pavement with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, orange shock blanket draped around her shoulders. Donovan has been coaxing her to at least get up and out of the puddle into which the woman landed when she sank to the ground but without success. The ambulance personnel backed off the moment Sherlock entered the scene. He remembers their faces from a different crime scene six months ago, where they had been making a thorough nuisance of themselves, scampering over the evidence. From a distance they stand observing their patient wearily, while talking to John.

Disregarding the damage the muddy pavement will inflict on his trousers Sherlock sweeps the tails of his coat behind him and kneels down.

“Miss Grace. Imogen?” he inveigles in a hushed voice. “Imogen, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m going to catch the brute who did this to you. But in order to do so, you must help me.”

“Go away,” she snarls. “Leave me alone.”

He hesitates for a moment and then he ghosts her left hand with a finger. Just a swift brush to startle her and let her feel she’s worthy of being touched in a respectful manner. It’s imperative to inform her she isn’t some piece of worthless garbage, an object to be used and thrown away after it’s served its purpose.

“Sir. You should interfere. The Freak will traumatise her even further…”

Tuning out Donovan’s appalled whispers Sherlock reaches out and takes a firm hold of Imogen Grace’s hand. 

She lifts her head, and he notices the flare-up in her eyes, the silently indignant ‘how-dare-you?’. Relieved he’s got her attention settled onto him, away from her bruised self, he opens up his face to her, allowing her to glare, inviting her to slap him if she wants to.

All she does is stare, panting softly, before switching off her gaze.

“Listen,” he says, holding onto her hand, drawing his thumb back and forth over the back with gentle patience. If only he had eyes in the back of his head so he could _scowl_ at Donovan and Lestrade both. They won’t back off, remaining close by at the ready to swoop down on him the moment he makes one of his scathing remarks. _As if he would._

Obviously, they aren’t aware he’s asking Imogen Grace to spill her plight to the most sympathetic listener among them.

“Listen to me please. I know you’re afraid of me because I’m a man and a man did this to you but I need you to listen to me very carefully. Will you do that, not for me, but for yourself?”

The last word makes her slide her gaze over his face. However it doesn’t settle, but gets drawn inward again instead.

“You’re feeling dirty right now, Imogen. Dirty, and used, like a discarded piece of rubbish. How could you let him do this to you, why didn’t you put up a more determined fight? All you want is a wash. You’re wishing I would leave you alone and all these people would make themselves scarce so you can slink home and stand under the shower and scrub yourself clean. Except, when you get out and have dried yourself off you’ll find you’ve forgotten a spot – it could be anywhere, on your thigh, or maybe your arm – and so you’ll step under the shower again and start washing anew. Over and over and over and still you’re unclean – you’re _filthy_ – so you’ll grab a brush and start scrubbing. A gentle rub at first but that doesn’t help – obviously – so you go at it more determinedly until you end scouring your skin, turning it into a bleeding red mess and yet you remain foul.”

“How… Why are you…” Her eyes are big and round and focused on him now, searching for an explanation.

“Oh,” comprehension explodes from her lips.

“Yes,” he says, stressing his confirmation with a squeeze of the ball of her thumb.

“But…”

“That’s not important. _You_ are important. That’s why I’m here, to help _you_. Is that all right? Will you allow me to?”

“I…” She brings up her other hand and coughs into it. “Why do you ask me what _I_ want?”

“Because he didn’t.” After having dropped his sentence he lays down her hand in her lap. A sigh shakes itself out of her elegant throat, as long and white as a swan’s, rippling the intricate tattoo of darkening bruises around her larynx.

“No, he didn’t.” She laughs, a high whinny of despair. “He didn’t. And I did fight him, I did, at first that is… I, I… Oh god, he was so strong.” The marks on her neck of the man’s strength are evidence enough but she begins the torturous endeavour of hitching up her sleeve with her shaking hand. Her teeth gnash, Sherlock can’t tell whether in frustration or actual pain, and though he’s aware the bruises on her arm won’t provide him with any new information he remains seated in front of her, cold wetness creeping up through the fabric of his trousers and seeping into the pores of his skin, waiting quietly. 

“You see?” Proffering her evidence right under his nose, she commands him to look. He looks, scrutinising the discolouration with all his considerable attention to detail, starting the most intense scrutiny in the history of the study of bruises caused by adult males of about twenty-seven years old, approximately five feet nine in height and weighing a little under thirteen stone. To confirm he’s taken in everything she’s been showing him, he tugs his head down in a sharp nod.

“I never had a chance. He… oh God, I kicked him but he just laughed… he laughed at me and told me to be quiet or he’d kill me and oh…” Flinging up her hands she buries her face into them and continues in a muffled voice, “he had a nice face. If… if I’d met him in the pub I might have flirted with him and, but he… he. He just _took_ … he ripped my knickers and … I couldn’t… I didn’t… oh.”

A shiver ripples through her body. The shock blanket flutters down; ending up in a dirty pool of orange around her.

“Oh. He… he.”

“Yes,” he agrees in a soft murmur. For there are no words fit to describe what she had to go through.

“His clothes were expensive,” she blurts next. “Some city bloke, I guess. Pinstripe, a… a waistcoat, he even had a watch chain, I know because I felt it… I felt it when, when… You see, he was all over me. He put his tongue into my mouth. I should have bitten but I, by then… It happened somehow, to me, but I wasn’t there.”

Closing her eyes she concentrates on dragging up details. Information to feed him, to send him chasing through London to find the man who raped her. Her and the three others before her, except they didn’t manage to tear themselves out of his claws after he was done with them and Sherlock had conducted his interviews with them in dead silence. 

The first was conducted in Bart’s morgue, and he’d rested his hand, briefly, on her crotch, over the part where she’d been brutally violated – whether in a pledge for revenge or an attempt to shield himself from the impact of the sight he wouldn’t have been able to tell, not right then. Opposite him Molly’s breath had hitched in her throat and he’d looked up and given her a fleeting smile.

The other two had been easier, even though they’d still been warm. Somehow, the sight of the first abused body had prepared him and he could be his cool, clinical self again, the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, the _freak_.

But not with her, not with Imogen Grace. He’ll listen with all the patience in the world to her as she invites him into her nightmare. She talks and talks and his mind is busy filling in the details she provides into the general picture of the man they’re looking for – and then he’s convinced they’ve got him. Flashing his gaze at Imogen to indicate he’s still listening he whips up his Moleskine notebook and a pen out of his pocket and scribbles down the name of the big lawyer firm and the department where their perpetrator works, rips the page out of the notebook and flaps his arm in the general direction of Lestrade and Donovan. The note is whisked out of his hand with an indignant huff. 

_Fine._

“Imogen.” 

He dares to grip both her hands now and he holds onto them while he locks his eyes firmly into hers. 

“Imogen, I must be off now. I’m going to help the police arrest the man who thought he had the right to use your body for his own purposes. He made you suffer. He sought to humiliate you. Imogen, promise yourself one thing. Whatever he did, you’re stronger than he is. With his act he’s lowered himself, and you, you are better than that. You’re a diamond, Imogen. A precious, beautifully cut, shiny, flawless diamond. You do know what happens when a diamond falls in the mud, don’t you? You bend to it to pick it up and rinse it under the tap. Then you hold it up in front of your eyes and enjoy the way its prisms catch the light and you marvel at its smooth surface and you forget where you retrieved it.”

Behind his back Lestrade starts talking into his phone. Sherlock tunes him out and squeezes Imogen’s hands to summon her full attention onto himself and his message to her.

“You’re that diamond, Imogen. Of course you need to cleanse yourself but only once, do you hear. Go home and shower, and dry yourself with the nicest, fluffiest towel you’ve got. Once you’ve done that you’re clean. As clean and shiny as the diamond you are. I know you won’t feel that way, you’ll want to step back into the shower again to rinse yourself again but you won’t. Tell me you won’t, Imogen.”

“I… oh…”

“You won’t. Hand me your mobile.”

With a dazed look she fishes around in her shoulder bag and finds it for him.

“Is it locked?” he asks.

Mute, she shakes her head. His fingers fly over the phone’s surface to enter his number.

“Here.” He lets it drop in her bag and grasps one of her hands again. “Whenever you want to wash yourself, because you must get clean, because he soiled you and you’re feeling dirty, because you can’t think but about the wish to be clean you call me, all right? You’ll find me under ‘clean’.”

That makes her laugh. “But your name… I didn’t hear…”

“My name is not important. Just… let me help you, all right?”

***

To state that the HR director of the international law firm is none too pleased at being roused from her bed at two a.m. on a Thursday would be putting it mildly. Ignoring her disgruntled complaints, Sherlock flicks through her personnel files. 

“We’re a highly respectable firm,” she’s whining. “The idea of one of our employees committing such an act is an outrage.”

“Here he is.” With a flourish Sherlock presents her with the folder of Lionel Winshaw. “Any particulars you care to share with us?”

“But… but… he’s a happily married man. They just had a baby, a girl…” The woman’s whitened face stands out sharply against the stern black of the high-necked dress she’s wearing. 

“Jesus,” Donovan comments in a tone of utter repugnance. 

“Donovan,” Lestrade warns in a tired voice.

“Well, it’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

“He’s one of our highest valued employees,” the HR director protests.

“And a rapist and a murderer,” Sherlock adds. “Come on, John, it will be hard enough to find ourselves a cab here. Eccleston Mews isn’t exactly round the corner. We’ll meet you outside, Lestrade, see who arrives first.”

***

“So,” John says the next morning during the late breakfast they’re sharing back at 221b. “I’m happy that nasty case has been rounded up. I was a bit worried about you, frankly. That whole business was wearing you out.”

Sherlock lowers his newspaper to raise his eyebrow at his flatmate. 

“Really, John,” he starts drawling.

“Yeah, fine. Look here, Sherlock. It’s obvious you don’t want to talk about it and I’m not making you, not if you don’t want to, but I watched you and contrary to what you like to say I do observe some things, you know.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes, I do actually. I’m not starting an argument here. All I want to say is I understand some things better now.”

“You’re speaking in tongues, John. Please do me the kindness of phrasing your opinion in more comprehensive language, or even better, don’t, as I’m not interested in hearing it anyway.” He flatly refuses to listen to John’s incorrect assumptions about his lack of interest in certain areas that John, and every other person of their acquaintance, deems so frightfully important.

“Sherlock, I’m merely expressing my sympathy and I think…” John tries.

“I don’t need your sympathy, John.”

“For god’s sake…”

“Yes. Getting angry with me is a great way to show your compassion,” Sherlock scoffs. With deliberate, short tugs he folds the newspaper and lays it aside. “Listen, John, let me tell you something. Yes, I was raped when I was fifteen years old. Yes, it was a horrible experience. But no, that’s not the reason I’m not interested in sex. I’ve never been interested; the idea of sex has always revolted me. Besides rape has nothing to do with sex, it’s an act of aggression committed with the aid of certain body parts.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, that’s…”

“What you were angling for and now you know. End of discussion. Now, be a good friend and prepare me another cup of tea to let me know how sorry you are for me. Clearly, someone who lets his libido reign his life to the extent you do, won’t understand. However, I will not hold it against you.”

Stunned, John picks up the mugs and heads off to the kitchen. If Sherlock wasn’t already aware his rude reception of John’s empathy has managed to ruffle John’s feathers, the loud clatter of the kettle being put on the hob would have informed him of his flatmate’s disgruntlement. 

He sighs loudly. John’s obsession, everyone’s obsession with sex, is so _tedious_.

***

“…and we’ll have to wait a few weeks,” Mycroft drones. A look of carefully guarded anger settles on his features as he goes on. “That damned Percy-Smith assured me all he’d ever engaged in was mutual masturbation and fellatio with this Le Feuvre fellow, which quieted my fears a bit. However when I spoke with _that_ rascal he confessed to having enjoyed a more ambitious love life than his friend. I made him draw up a list. Matron assured me the last recorded instance of an STD at the school occurred in 1990 and consisted of nothing worse than gonorrhoea so we needn’t worry too much while awaiting the test results.”

“Mycroft, Mycroft, I’m going to be sick!”

“Oh.” Mycroft’s mouth twitches. “Here…” He hands Sherlock a small kidney-shaped tray. With a wild shove Sherlock stacks it under his chin. His mouth tastes horrible despite the fact he brushed his teeth ten minutes ago with Mycroft’s worried gaze boring into his back. 

Sherlock retches but nothing comes up, just more of the vile taste he can’t seem to get rid of. 

The foul musky flavour of… oh God. He won’t say the word, not even in his head. But he’s already thought about it; again. All his thoughts can revolve around is the rampage of his palate, the nauseating drag of the raunchy flesh across his tongue. Afterwards there was the blood. At first he’d almost welcomed it, for it chased away the lingering taste of Percy-Smith’s penis in his mouth. Soon after he realised where the blood came from and he spat it out. It flowed past his lips and down his chin, he could feel it dripping onto his chest and then he’d fainted. 

Nothing comes up, nothing but some saliva. Savagely thrusting the tray in the general direction of Mycroft he falls back against the pillows. They’re thick and luxuriant and the cotton of the freshly laundered pillowcases smells deliciously clean. Sherlock tries to concentrate on the concept of those wonderful pillows against his back, inhaling deeply to draw the comforting lavender aroma deep into his lungs, through his nose and then further down, past the back of his…

“Mycroft! Quick…”

Once more he brings up nothing. It’s useless.

“Maybe if I brush my teeth,” he forwards. 

“Sherlock, you brushed them ten minutes ago. You’re going to hurt your gums if you brush them that often.”

“But my mouth. There’s such a vile taste.” 

“There can’t be, Sherlock. Not any longer. You’re imagining it. Please stop doing that; it’s unhelpful.”

“I don’t care. I want to brush my teeth. Now,” grits Sherlock. He has to; the alternative is another attempt to throw up.

“All right, one minute,” Mycroft concedes. “But no more.”

At the sink he attacks his mouth with the brush, rubbing it over his teeth with such force and using so much toothpaste big foam bubbles erupt from between his lips. The mint flavour ousts the loathsome tang of Percy-Smith’s flesh and for a few precious seconds, while he’s rinsing his mouth with water he feels delightfully clean again. With satisfaction he watches as his hand puts the brush in the glass standing in front of the mirror. He looks at himself.

There is a spot of blood on his lower lip. How can it still be there after he rinsed his mouth so thoroughly? His hand reaches for the toothbrush again. 

“Sherlock.”

Caught, Sherlock pivots on his heels and stares at his brother. Mycroft gazes back. With his head he makes a motion in the direction of the bed.

“We agreed upon one minute. I allowed you two. Come back here, please.”

Slowly, Sherlock walks back to the bed and installs himself in it. He tugs the sheets and the duvet upwards until they’re covering his chin. Then he settles his gaze on Mycroft.

“That’s better.” Mycroft tugs the corners of his mouth upwards into a pained smile. “Are you comfy like that?”

He waits for an answer and Sherlock nods, valiantly attempting to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft begins. “Sir Percy-Smith is a very powerful man. Naturally, he assured me his son’s behaviour was reprehensible and the boy couldn’t be punished enough. Still, I’m afraid he might hold you responsible somehow for his son’s actions.” 

He falls quiet and forces Sherlock to lock his gaze with Mycroft’s. “What that boy did to you, what they all did, is unacceptable. Nothing of the sort happened during my stint here and we had quite a lot of scandals as well, believe me. Somehow though, those were less chilling, more like boy’s pranks. What these five undertook, this kind of violence is…” Briefly, Mycroft closes his eyes. A shudder travels through his whole body and his hand clutches the bed sheet. “Of course the boys engage in sexual relations, even buy favours from the younger ones. Personally, I consider that kind of behaviour abhorrent but what can one do. As long as the younger boy is willing…”

Letting go of the sheet Mycroft reaches behind him to produce a beautiful city umbrella with a Maplewood handle. Positioning the item next to his right leg he starts twirling it, as if he’s drawing comfort and courage from the feel of the glossy wood between his fingers.

“Mr Harrow told me he noticed a tension between you, Percy-Smith and this other boy, Leighton Le Feuvre, almost like jealousy. What exactly happened between the three of you, Sherlock? Seeing as how I’m your brother I realise I’m probably not the right person to ask this question but I’m afraid it will have to do.”

“What? What are you insinuating? This is absurd.” Suddenly the duvet doesn’t feel like protection any longer but like a restraint and Sherlock starts pushing himself up.

“Calm down, Sherlock,” Mycroft answers. The umbrella is put through an intricate _batterie_ of agitation. “I’m not insinuating anything but rather awaiting your explanation so we can extricate ourselves from this mess.”

“My explanation? There is _nothing_ to explain!”

“Please, Sherlock. Shouting at me isn’t going to help us.”

All Sherlock can do is stare at Mycroft. His brother stares back at him. Then, with an imperious gesture, Sherlock indicates he’ll need the tray again.

Giving it to him Mycroft continues, “Forgive me for being this blunt but, considering the gravity of the situation I’d rather not beat about the bush. During the last year you must have become aware you’re a very attractive boy, Sherlock. You’ve always resembled our father but recently you’ve developed into his precise image. Maybe you were too small to notice the effect he had on almost anyone. I remember the last Christmas before he died. At that time I was just discovering the pleasures of the body and the whole game of looking and assessing and throwing out glances. All of the women and half of the men were _ogling_ Daddy, I can’t think of a better word. It was almost painful to look at, Daddy charmingly ignoring the furtive offers and Mummy battling her jealousy.”

With the tray under his chin Sherlock retches. Mycroft averts his eyes.

“I apologise for further distressing you, Sherlock,” he says when Sherlock has levelled the tray on his chest. “I’m only telling you this because I need to know what the dynamics were between the three of you. James Percy-Smith has confessed to me he acted out of jealousy. Did you, have you ever, encouraged the other boy, this Le Feuvre, in his affections for you? No one will hold it against you if you did and it’s not an excuse for raping you…” 

“Oh,” Sherlock moans and retches once more, once again bringing up nothing but saliva. With a snarl he flings the tray onto the floor. Then, he leverages himself upright and almost throws himself at Mycroft.

“What are you saying?” he shouts. “You… you…Mr Harrow should have kept his mouth shut. He told me not to make a fuss when Le Feuvre… when Le Feuvre tried to kiss me and I had to throw up. Oh, quick.”

Remaining perfectly unperturbed during Sherlock’s outburst, Mycroft now hastens to retrieve the tray. “When was this, Sherlock?” he asks once Sherlock has stopped struggling.

“Before Christmas, the day you called to tell Mr Mancini had died.”

“I see. And what happened since then?”

“Nothing, he disgusts me, they all disgust me, all they can think about is sex, this whole school, each and every one of them! It’s revolting! I was aware Le Feuvre gawked at me a lot but I gave him the cold shoulder and he kept his distance. It’s loathsome how Mr Harrow cast us as the leads in the new play but I just don’t look at him unless the scene calls for it.”

“Good. Thank you, Sherlock.” Gripping the umbrella by the stick Mycroft lines the top of the crook with his eyes and takes up an extensive study of the wood. 

Panting, Sherlock sinks against the pillows. “I hate you for thinking I would ever do anything as sordid as that,” he spits. 

Mycroft darts a glance at him before coughing into his hand. He whips up a carefully folded handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and proceeds to blow his nose.

“I’m afraid our family has a new enemy,” he says, refolding the handkerchief and putting it back in his pocket. “Over the course of the next few weeks, when the blot on both the family name and the damage to the future of his youngest will come to stand out stronger in Sir Percy-Smith’s mind the enormity of his son’s action will pale into insignificance. This is how the human mind works.” Mycroft’s lips move in a small quirk of despair. “We’re more inclined to consider and forgive what’s nearest to us. Right now Sir Percy-Smith bewails having fathered the boy. Once his first bout of anger has worn off he’s bound to go searching for excuses. So I’m relieved to find your behaviour has been beyond reproach all along. This strengthens our position considerably.”

After he’s finished the last sentence Mycroft reaches for the umbrella again and rolls it between his fingers.

“So now you’re saying you _did believe_ it was my own fault I was…”

“Don’t.” Mycroft fists the umbrella tightly. “Don’t say that word or I’ll… Sherlock, while I talked to that dirty little _scumbag_ I wanted to strangle him with my own bare hands for hurting you so. Even if you had flirted with any of them, openly or covert, that gave them no leave to overpower you and damage you by committing such an atrocious act. Of course I kept an eye on you and noticed you were a late developer. You can’t imagine my relief upon finding you were discovering the pleasures of the body at last. To hear you…”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts Mycroft with a low growl. “No. Oh god, that taste. I need to brush my teeth again.”

He dashes up to the sink and engages himself in another vicious attack on his mouth and the filth that’s still slouching there, lurking in the cavities between his teeth, at the back of his throat, crawling up to his nose.

The heavy feel of Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder startles him.

“Sherlock, stop it. Your gums are going to suffer and you’ll ruin your teeth.”

“But the taste…”

“You’re imagining it, Sherlock. By giving in to this urge you’re weakening yourself and letting that dirty little bastard get the better of you. Come back to your bed. Here.” Mycroft starts tucking Sherlock in as expertly as Matron would have done.

“There,” he says, grasping Sherlock’s hand once the sheets and duvet are flawlessly arranged over Sherlock’s figure. “You should rest, Sherlock. Rest and put this behind you.” Sherlock’s hand is given a quick squeeze. “You know, in the old days, when we were still an Empire, women that went with their husbands to the colonies, or young girls that went out to the colonies to marry their future husbands were warned against the possibility of a sudden uprising of the native population and the ensuing dangers, especially with regard to women. Should that happen they weren’t supposed to fight but undergo the offense stoically. ‘Lie back and think of England,’ they were told. It might sound a bit rude but I wonder whether it wasn’t good advice, actually. You shouldn’t forgive – I for one, will never forgive the reprehensible _toerag_ – but don’t let this ruin your chances of happiness, of… Sherlock, when I think that scoundrel might have destroyed your chances of engaging in a healthy relationship...”

“He hasn’t,” Sherlock interrupts. “Will you please stop hinting at my loss of a ‘healthy relationship’. I wasn’t intent on having one anyway.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“Stop it, Mycroft. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine, we won’t. Though I think we should.” Now Mycroft is giving him the stern ‘I’m older and wiser than you are’ look which he hates. Besides, he’s speaking the truth and Mycroft could do him the honour of accepting the fact.

“We really shouldn’t,” he spits, revelling in the obvious hurt fleeting over Mycroft’s face. 

“Fine then.” Abruptly, Mycroft lets go of Sherlock’s hand. His fingers fall against the duvet. Sherlock tells himself the sudden release doesn’t make him feel lost but is rather a relief. 

Silence settles over the room. Mycroft sits gazing ahead of him, clearly having adopted the stance that Sherlock should be the one to make the first move. Sherlock stares at the ceiling until a fresh wave of nausea hits him.

“Mycroft, could you?”

Mycroft reaches over Sherlock to retrieve the tray from the bedside table and place it into Sherlock’s outstretched hand. 

“Fight it.” 

“I _am_ fighting it,” Sherlock manages before giving in to another acute spasm of his oesophagus. 

“Do you feel we could discuss the rest of your schooling now?” Mycroft asks once Sherlock has collapsed back against the pillows. “You won’t want to stay here. I’ve thought of hiring a bigger flat in London. You can come and live with me there and we might engage a tutor for you.”

“Mr Talbot,” Sherlock exclaims. “Oh Mycroft, that would be wonderful.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Sherlock,” smiles Mycroft, “but no. I was not contemplating hiring Mr Talbot’s services again. One new enemy is enough for the time being. Mr Talbot’s present employer would be thoroughly annoyed with the person inducing Mr Talbot to terminate his contract, even if that person was the one whose existence alerted the man to Mr Talbot’s abilities in the first place. No, Mr Talbot must continue his endeavours to cast some light into the brain of his current pupil.”

“You know who he is then? Mr Talbot told you?” A profound sense of betrayal hits Sherlock full in the chest. Mr Talbot has unremittingly rebuffed all of Sherlock’s questions concerning his present employer and yet he chose to share the information freely with Mycroft.

“No, Mr Talbot didn’t tell me. I knew Mr Talbot received several offers while still in our employ, Daddy sometimes joked to him about those, warning him not to throw away his chances of earing himself a better salary than Daddy was paying him.” A smile fleets over Mycroft’s face. His words have invoked a precious memory, it seems. “Naturally, my eye fell on the crests and return addresses of some of the correspondence he received while he was with us. So, it was a process of elimination rather, culminating in the one possible outcome. Of course Mr Talbot is perfectly aware I have figured out the name of the family. However, what is to be gained by expressing my knowledge openly? You’re not interested in politics yet, Sherlock. You’ll have to trust me when I tell you we don’t want to antagonise this man.” 

“Then why mention a tutor?” Sherlock demands. “Who did you have in mind?”

“No one in particular yet,” replies Mycroft. “It’s going to be very difficult to find someone. However, staying in school is not an option. I’ve considered changing schools – Eton or Winchester.”

“What purpose will that serve?” queries Sherlock. The inanity of this idea exasperates him. “A different school will have the same stupid pupils and tedious masters, what would be the advantage, except for a change of scene?”

“You can’t mean? You want to stay here?”

“No, of course not. I want to be at home or in a flat with Mr Talbot. Since I can’t have that for the vague reasons you insist on not explaining I’ll make do here. At least everyone here will know what happened and give me a wide berth in the future.”

“Sherlock, don’t talk about yourself in this way. As if you’re damaged goods or…”

“Stop it, Mycroft. Why do you insist on turning this into something sexual the whole time? You’re only making me feel sick again.”

“Here’s the tray.”

“Thank you. Now do me the favour of making yourself scarce, would you? Go arrange whatever you must arrange with the Headmaster and leave me alone.”

***

Once Mycroft is gone he lays on the bed with the curtains drawn, rerunning their conversation in his head. Mycroft had been unlike himself, convoluted and flailing, hurtling along. He’d sounded… panicked, for lack of a better term.

He wishes he could think, but he can’t with the foul taste in his mouth and he rushes over to the sink to give it another good scrub.

He’d come to here, in this bed with Mycroft sitting next to him, his eyes reddened and shiny and clutching Sherlock’s hand. 

“I’m here,” he’d mumbled, “you’re safe now.” He had seen Sherlock scratching at the tape holding the gauze in the crook of his elbow – where they’d drawn the blood for the STD tests. He refuses to think about those – and Mycroft had asked whether he should pull it off for Sherlock.

Sherlock had nodded and drifted back into the drug-induced sleep again only to wake up to the nightmare of his body having turned into a sack of filth and his brother into a fool intent on being stupid. He’d done all the usual Mycroft things apparently, bullying the Headmaster and Percy-Smith’s father, scaring the living daylights out of… _them_. As Mycroft is only twenty-two years old, just out of university and finally, finally entering into the career he’d already carved out for himself before Sherlock was even born, any other person would say Mycroft has handled the situation remarkably well.

Any other person isn’t Sherlock though, or Mr Talbot. What would he say if he saw Mycroft like this, undone by Sherlock, by what had been done to Sherlock?

The toothbrush falls from his hand. Scouring his mouth isn’t enough. He’s filthy, sleazy all over. He brings up his arm to sniff at the skin on his wrist and gags. The smell of the sweaty hands of the boy that held him wafts up and douses him. His hands grapple his stomach as he stands retching, listening to the offensive sounds issuing from his throat against his control. He tears off his pyjamas to hurry under the shower and let the spray wash over him while he closes his eyes and rests against the tiles. 

He’s so afraid. Of everything.

***

“Good god, Sherlock. What are you doing? Your skin, oh.”

Matron’s voice rouses him from where he appears to have drifted off while under the shower. The spray is turned off and he scrabbles to raise himself from the floor tiles, blinking against the bright splash of the ceiling light.

“Here.” A great white fluffy towel descends on him. “Would you like me to rub you dry?”

_No, please no._

“I’ll do it myself.”

***

_“God, please, no,” Daddy cries. “Don’t look, Sherlock.”_

_He looks._

_His pupils adapt themselves to the darkness that is descending upon them. The air is filled with the rustle of thousands of flapping wings. Millions of black oily glistening feathers brush in a whisper, which is echoed, and bounces off the dome of the sky, amplified to the screeching of a thousand off-tune violins. The birds cackle, high and wanton. Beneath the bodies of the males their genitals bob up and down. Ruddy and erect, ready to attack them._

_The biggest of the birds swoops down on them._

_“Hello, fuckface,” he breathes. “This time you’re not going to bite me.”_

_Sherlock ducks his head to hide behind Daddy’s shoulder. He finds he is swung down on the ground._

_“Safe,” Daddy says. “Come on, Sherlock.”_

_A sleek black car stands solidly waiting to shelter them. Daddy smiles down on Sherlock while his hand reaches for the car’s door handle. The moment he opens it Percy-Smith, re-established in human form, and a host of boys jump out of the car. They pounce on Daddy, ripping the clothes from his body, and Sherlock closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable._

***

Matron has tucked him into a small room next to the sickbay where he’s free to do as he pleases. Mycroft has retrieved his violin case and his books. The books stand neatly aligned on a shelf. So far he has refrained from touching them. After Mycroft left he lifted the Guarneri from the case and sat fingering the wood, stroking the pads of his fingertips along the strings. He didn’t reach for the bow but rested the violin on his pillow, on the side next to the wall so it can’t drop off and crash to the floor. It’s still lying there; he cradles it against his face and enjoys the clean impersonal smoothness against his cheek.

Each morning he sits in a chair while Matron changes the bed sheets. After she’s cleaned the sink she replaces the wrung-out tube of toothpaste with a new one and puts a fresh bar of soap on the dish in the shower. 

“Don’t take too long,” she says as she lifts the breakfast tray from the table, directing her eyes towards the small bathroom. The moment the door to the room falls shut behind her, he is under the hot spray of the shower. The water cascades on his head and shoulders, and he revels in the idea of being clean, if only for the time he spends in the bathroom. Meanwhile he’s excoriating his teeth with the toothbrush, punishing them for their betrayal for he’s brushed them so often now and they’re still dirty, souring the taste in his mouth.

To battle the nightmares he starts sleeping in the afternoon. After lunch Matron draws the white curtains and he closes his eyes against the filtered soft light flowing into the room and catches a few hours of sleep. The nightmares are fooled for two days before they transform themselves into daymares. The nights he spends reading until his eyes keep falling closed. Each time that happens he forces them open again until he is overpowered by sleep at last and drifts off to wake up screaming a few hours later. Then Matron hastens towards him and lays a cool hand on his brow. The first time he felt her fingers he flinched away from the touch but he’s used to it by now. It would be better if it were Mr Talbot touching him, or John or Nanny, Mr Mancini or even Mycroft, but as he can’t have those he’ll make do with Matron’s.

One evening there is a small white pill next to his plate of toad-in-the-hole with green peas and mashed potatoes. 

“What’s this?” he asks. 

“You need to sleep, Sherlock,” she says. 

“I won’t take a sleeping pill.”

“It’s your decision of course,” she answers and puts a glass of water next to the tray. 

***

_1st June, 1992_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_My dear boy, what can I say?_

_Mycroft wrote to tell me of the plight you had to endure. I won’t burden you with any elaborate remarks on my shock and the outrage I felt upon reading his letter. My dear boy, please know right now you’re in my thoughts constantly._

_I do hope you’re not suffering from any nightmares. Sleep should provide you with a few hours respite from these horrors, which you are no doubt reliving constantly while awake. The mind is such a devoted torturer, especially when fed with the kind of cruelties you underwent._

_Instructing you to forget them won’t be very useful advice. Nevertheless, you should set your sharp mind the task of breaking up this offense against your body’s integrity into small chunks after which the effects of time can start their healing sweep of the memories from your brain._

_Although Mycroft was not as concise and comprehensive as he usually is in his letters, his description of the events has led me to understand you are the hapless victim of a strong passion and a dreadful jealousy. My perception of the events is that this boy Percy-Smith reduced you to an instrument to attack the other boy, whose attention he’d lost and which he craved, apparently. Another prime example of the powers set loose once we choose not to rein in the passions that rule us. However, these abstract musings won’t diminish the fact that you were hurt, nor the acuteness of your suffering._

_Still, my dear, dear boy, I beg you not to let what happened get the better of you. You were raped. Rape is an act of violence perpetrated by means of the body. Basically, there is no difference between Browning’s attempt to drown you when you were younger – and you overcame that assault – and this low deed. Except, this time the weapon your aggressor chose was particularly apt to wound you, considering the sensibilities we’ve discussed in recent years._

_There is just one more point I would like to touch upon, which is your present compunction to wash yourself. You know full well every particle of the skin and blood of your assailant is no longer on your body. So I’m ordering you to stop this compulsive cleaning of your body now. Please refrain from showering or brushing your teeth for three days at least. Tell yourself ‘it’s my body and it’s mine and I am clean’ each time you feel the urge to shower or brush your teeth. By giving in to the urge you’re admitting you’re the one who is to blame for the violation of your body. You’re not!_

_Don’t wash and let your old tutor know whether my little ruse did work, will you?_

_I’ll bid you adieu now, my dear boy. Please be so good as to write to me at your earliest convenience. Also, as you’ll be seeing John, Nanny and Cook shortly, don’t forget to convey my regards to them._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Edmund Talbot_

***

The Headmaster visits him in his white cell. The whole twenty minutes the interview lasts the man keeps inserting the finger of his right hand into his collar. He’s new – the old Headmaster having died of a heart attack two months ago – and it’s obvious he rather wished for a different launch of his career.

“We’ll make sure no other school of significance in this country will accept the boys,” he assures Sherlock. _As if he cares one jot what happens to them._ “Holmes, are you sure you want to continue your education here?”

“Here’s as good as anywhere else.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The only thing I really don’t want to do any more is to play female leads. Will you please send Mr Harrow over so I can tell him so.”

The Headmaster’s eyes shift away and the finger makes another deliberate swag inside the collar. 

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “My brother put his foot down.”

“Yes, he rather did.”

Sherlock slants his gaze towards the window. He refuses to be drawn into any of these political games.

“I’ve taken the liberty of discussing your future housing arrangements with the House Master,” the Headmaster changes the topic. “Your brother agreed with us remaining in this house wouldn’t be a good idea. We’ve thought of installing you in Yellow House starting the next term. For the end of this term you can stay here if you want to. You won’t have to attend lessons if you’d rather not.”

“I’d much rather not. If it were possible I’d want to be exempted from them in the future.”

The Headmaster scrapes his throat. “That, I’m afraid, will be impossible to arrange.”

“So much I’d surmised.”

***

Mr Talbot’s ridiculous advice actually works. By not giving in to the inclination to rush off to the sink or under the shower Sherlock conquers the constant revulsion and dread of his own body. The dead skin cells, and skin fat and dirt swirling down the drain after three days is his and his alone. The rough layer coating the enamel of his teeth consists of his saliva, mixed with the minute remains of the tea and toast Matron has been feeding him, and the pieces of apple he’s been munching during the day. 

***

_“Safe,” Daddy says. “Come on, Sherlock.”_

***

“You need to sleep properly, Sherlock,” Matron tells him as she puts down his dinner tray in front of him. “Of course you’re trying to avoid the nightmares but you’re wearing yourself out. Not sleeping and eating hardly anything… Your brother is pestering me constantly; but what does he want me to do? You’ve both refused counselling. You both won’t listen to any professional advice. He enters my sickbay as if he owns it and starts yelling at me I’m not taking good care of you. I would be, if both of you would allow me to.”

She sends him an annoyed look.

“I’d be very disappointed to find that pill still sitting next to your plate when I come to collect the tray. You can flush it down the toilet if you want me to stop haranguing you.” She hesitates. “See here, Sherlock. I want you to be well again. I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against taking a sleeping pill; taking one for just a few nights won’t hurt you. Quite the contrary. You’ll feel better, much better.”

The door closes behind her. He pricks with his fork in the spaghetti Bolognese on the plate in front of him but lays it down again after three bites. His stomach rumbles appreciatively but the food nauseates him and most of all he’s tired, plain exhausted in fact. 

The little white pill blinks up at him. With a growl he pushes his chair away and stands up. The next moment a spell of dizziness sends him crashing to the floor. His flailing limbs hit the chair and topple it over with a deafening clatter.

“Sherlock!”

Matron is at his side in an instant, pulling him upright. Her eyes dart between him and the table top displaying the evidence of the tray with the hardly touched food.

“Sherlock,” she says again, dragging him over towards the bed. Together they manage to somehow wrench him onto the mattress. He melts into it. 

Oh, to sleep without the nightmares, if only for just one night. Or even to live through them but not wake up. Ride them out and be oblivious for a couple a few more hours.

“Matron.” He swallows.

“Yes.”

“I think.” He swallows again, painfully, but he’s already crossed the boundary. No use pretending he’s still putting up a fight.

“I”ll have that pill, please.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful daasgrrl did me the enormous honour of elaborating on the events in this chapter and the previous one and creating a whole new wonderful fic in the universe of this series. There is a slight twitch to it, one my holmescest heart intensely adores. The fic is called _Dolor Hic Tibi Proderit Olim (someday this pain will be useful to you)_ , which is of course the rest of the Latin quote that's the title of book III. You can find the fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1018288/chapters/2024791). Please do go and give yourself the joy of reading it.


	11. Perfer et Obdura, chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The high he experiences when near the end of the last term he manages to extract a packet out of his neighbour’s trouser pocket during yet another excruciating Sunday service, nearly surpasses the satisfaction he feels when he sits puffing one of his prizes in his hideout in the copse later that afternoon.

Okay, how do I look?” John walks into the living room and doesn’t halt until he’s right in front of Sherlock. This requires Sherlock to lower his magazine and move his head up and down in order to assess John’s figure properly.

His friend clearly has put quite a lot of effort into readying himself for his date. Apart from washing his hair he has also put some product into it – Sherlock sniffs the air and corrects himself, not just _some_ product but Sherlock’s own twenty-six quid a teeny-weeny container pomade – and dabbed himself behind the ears with some – Sherlock’s again – eau de toilette. 

The unavoidable jeans are combined with what is actually a quite elegant dark-blue V-neck jumper, and a plain light-blue shirt, the top-button left undone in a careful imitation of Sherlock’s own inimitable style, but a nice try nevertheless. The jumper’s colour enhances the blue of John’s eyes, turning him into a slightly younger version of himself. 

John’s shoes are the most pleasant surprise however. They’re a casual pair, made of sleek leather in different tones of blue, a dashing diversion from the more mundane models John usually comes home with. 

Overall, Sherlock has to admit Connie Prince herself would have been hard put to mould the raw material into the finished article standing at attention to hear his verdict. John looks – even smells – like a smartened version of his usual self. Undeniably, the clothes are very _John_ – plain, homely, _safe_ – but he has obviously chosen the ensemble with some care and Sherlock would be the last person in the world to deny he wears it well.

“Socks,” he orders, and John hitches up his trouser legs obediently so Sherlock can check whether the socks are high enough to cover his shins when he sits down.

“Excellent,” Sherlock confirms and smiles inwardly at the relief fleeting over John’s face upon hearing the judgment. “If you don’t impress this one she doesn’t deserve you, John. What was her name again?”

As John is still pleased with having passed Sherlock’s high standards, he doesn’t roll his eyes. 

“Mandy,” he says.

“Ah yes, Mandy. I hadn’t thought you’d be going for the over-achieving type but it appears even I can be wrong,” sniffs Sherlock preparing to immerse himself in his book once more. John’s squawk prevents him. 

“What…” 

Sherlock is sincerely disappointed John hasn’t noticed this aspect of the woman’s personality yet. He must be really desperate for a date. The last one was how long… five weeks ago? With a woman named Angie. He’d read the name as a sure recipe for disaster, and, sadly, been proven right.

“Do keep up, John. If your mother had named you after a song that set a new all-time low for one’s expectations of the collective intelligence of worldwide audiences, you’d feel you had something to prove as well.” 

“What, I… Jesus.” John might as well have recited his thoughts out loud, they were so clearly written on his face. 

_Deleted the fact that the Earth revolves around the sun, any reference to any subject in popular culture draws a blank but does know who Barry Manilow is. Could probably play the goddamned, sickening tune on his violin._

Which Sherlock, indeed, can do, except he loves his Guarneri and the memory of Mr Mancini too much to force the sounds of such drivel from his beloved instrument. And really, Sherlock’s knowledge of squishy entertainers wouldn’t have been a surprise to John if he’d read Sherlock’s treatise on the website about the correlations between various acts of crime and the given names of the perpetrators, more specifically those crimes where the offenders had been wronged from the start by being saddled with a squeeing fangirl for a mother. Instead he says, “Have fun, John.”

“Thanks to you suddenly I’m not so sure anymore. Could you stop doing that? And oh, should anything happen ask Greg first whether he thinks you ought to text me.”

“I asked Lestrade the last time. It’s hardly reasonable to blame me for the fact he didn’t answer.”

“He explained to me afterwards. He was on his phone, receiving a ragging from his Superintendent, when you asked him.”

“Really John, I can’t help it if Lestrade has never learned to prioritise.”

“Sherlock, how… Oh, never mind. Just, don’t text, all right?”

“Not even for a triple homicide?”

“What? Jesus, Sherlock, behave, would you?”

“Bye, John.”

“Yes. Okay. Just. Oh goddamn it, goodbye!”

John stalks out of the room, slamming the door to behind him. Sighing, Sherlock raises the magazine and resumes his reading on the latest developments in CCTV technology. So far it hasn’t given him any new data to use in the on-going war he’s waging with Mycroft, but he’s never been one to be discouraged easily. 

***

“Sherlock! Oh dear, oh my dear. My poor, poor boy. Come here.” The moment Sherlock steps out of Mycroft’s car Nanny hurries down the stairs to throw her thin arms around his neck. Behind them Mycroft lifts the suitcases out of the boot of the car and ducks into the vehicle again to park it in the coach house.

“Hello Nanny,” Sherlock mumbles, patting her shoulder. She appears to have shrunk some more over the last few months, the top of her head doesn’t quite reach up to his chin.

“Sherlock, oh… I just can’t believe… I’ve got no words.” Her eyes swim up at him out of the folds of soft, wrinkled skin surrounding them. No doubt she means well, naturally she means well, she loves him after all, but her misguided commiseration sets his teeth on edge. 

Her whole demeanour shows she believes him to be a victim, just like Mummy. Another victim for Nanny to pamper and fuss about – it’s probably wicked to think that and he pushes the idea aside, at least for now – but he refuses to be treated like one. Thanks to Mr Talbot’s advice and to Matron’s handy white pills he’s feeling much better, and he would be very grateful if they could all talk about something else, thank you very much.

“I’m fine, Nanny,” he tells her. “I really am. It happened but it’s past now.”

“Yes, oh my poor boy but you must have been so…” she sniffles, determined to have him in tears so she can treat him like her helpless little boy.

“Nanny, stop it,” Sherlock scolds her. His tone is a little too harsh, maybe, but he really can’t help it.

Instantly her whole body tenses and her arms fall to her side, as feeble as a cloth doll’s limbs.

“Sherlock?”

The reproach in her voice is the quintessence of gentle exasperation; stabbing a knife right down to the bone. Understanding flashes through him, the light switch in his brain flicked to cast the concept of his old Nanny in a new light. 

She was twenty-three when Mummy’s parents hired her to look after their baby daughter. Fresh from the Yorkshire farm that she’d never liked and where she wasn’t needed, determined she wasn’t going to end up as a farmer’s wife working the skin off her hands to scrape a meagre existence out of the stone-ridden soil. 

She must have felt like she’d leapt through the looking-glass. In the old photographs she poses with Mummy on her arm in front of the French castle where Mummy spent the first eighteen years of her life. There are others that show them in the castle’s enormous drawing rooms, in the huge nursery, on board yachts bobbing on the waves of various Mediterranean ports. Pictures taken at the Surrey hunting lodge used to occupy the album’s empty spaces but Mummy had ripped out those and burned them after her father died there. 

All in all, the humble farm girl had come a long way, and it must have been increasingly unappealing to say goodbye to a life of ease and comfort, eating good food and sleeping between soft sheets, loved by her little charge. So, indubitably, money never being an object, she’d stayed on with the family when the apple of her eye went up to Oxford for her studies, and she’d followed her darling girl to this estate, into which so much money had been sunk to turn it into a home worthy to receive her fairy princess. Soon enough Mycroft appeared on the scene to fuss over, and, then there was that whole dreadful business, and by the time Mycroft was really too big for Nanny’s attentions, Sherlock entered this world to be looked after. 

A whole life dedicated to serving others. Their needs and wishes must be the focus of her attention, always coming before her own. She’s living in a cage. The bars may be forged out of gold and provide a more exciting view than a farm nestling in the Yorkshire dales, but they’re bars nevertheless, a daily reminder she is not free to live her own life.

Body and soul, she’s bound to an addict, who now depends on her as much as she once depended on the family for providing her with a living. Together, they’ve grown into a inherently destructive dichotomy of victimhood, the one can’t exist without the other, and they’re the banes of each other’s lives. How Nanny would love to broaden her powerbase, by sheltering Sherlock beneath her wings. 

Too bad for her but Sherlock won’t accommodate her. Currently he may not be able to sleep without Matron’s little white pills – she’s dispensed him ten just in case, telling him that he’ll find he won’t need them once he’s back home again. But then she doesn’t know he has a whole drawer at his disposal should he be in need of them – but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared to let Nanny victimise him.

To the right Mycroft’s figure rounds the corner of the house. His summer coat hangs neatly arranged from his bended left arm, while his right arm is engaged with a jaunty wielding of the umbrella. God, when did Mycroft decide to start accessorising with umbrellas? Doesn’t he realise they make him look grumpy and old before his time?

“Shall we go inside?” he asks. She stoops to pick up his luggage but he tells her not to be ridiculous. He is bigger and stronger than she is and doesn’t need her to carry his suitcase.

***

“Hello, John.”

“Sherlock! Oh, I hadn’t heard you.” John holds out the strawberry he’s just picked for Sherlock to pop into his mouth, and scrambles up to his feet. 

“You’re still as stealthy and quiet as a mouse,” John laughs. “Also, me going deaf in my ear helps too. Look.” He turns and uses a blackened hand to lift the greying strands of hair behind his ear to show the hearing aid. “The doctor said I already needed one of those three years ago. Finally got the hang of it. All it did in the beginning was fill my ear with the most hideous screeching. Don’t you want it?”

He nods in the direction of the strawberry Sherlock is still holding. Sherlock shakes his head.

“Give it to me, then,” is all John says, holding up his hand. Sherlock lets the fruit fall in the soft patch of flesh hidden among the calluses of the palm.

“We cleaned the lakes this spring,” John says, depositing the strawberry into his basket. “Old Jem helped me. I hope you’ll value the work.”

“I’ll go swimming every day, John. I look forward to it.”

“Good.”

With the use of his hands John struggles to his feet. Sherlock bends to hand him the basket. John doesn’t reach any higher than Sherlock’s fringe; he has to tip his head back to look Sherlock in the eye.

“You withstood Nanny’s sympathy?” he asks.

Sherlock can feel the right corner of his lips quirk in approval of John’s acuity. “Yes.”

“Good boy.” A quick pat on Sherlock’s shoulder and a wink. “Mostly, she means well. She loves you all very much, you should always remember that.”

Not a word about Sherlock’s ordeal. Yet John knows and understands, better than Nanny, better than Matron and the Housemaster, better even than Mycroft. 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is a croak.

“Yes?”

“Do you think… will you be able… let’s swim together tomorrow.”

John smiles. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“I’d like that, John. I’d like that very much.”

***

They eat in silence. Michael, obviously, has received instructions. Mummy, equally obviously, hasn’t been told. She’s on her feet the moment Mycroft has finished his second helping of Eton mess. 

“I’ll be up in my room,” she informs them in quivering tones. Her attempt to rest her napkin on the table ends in it fluttering down to the floor. “Oh.” A sob of frustration and she’s stalking out of the room next. “Nanny, where are you?” they hear her shouting up the stairs. Michael throws Mycroft a worried look.

All Mycroft does is sigh and shrug his shoulders. After a quick glance in Sherlock’s direction Michael reaches over the table to grasp Mycroft’s hand. 

“My, I’m so sorry.” His eyes are locked on Mycroft’s. The knuckles of his balled fist stand out white against the skin of his hand. To Sherlock’s disgust Mycroft lays his other hand on top of Michael’s. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine, he feels his stomach heave, threatening to bring up the two bites of Eton mess he managed to swallow earlier. 

_“My.”_ Mycroft tolerates that blockhead calling him _“My.”_

“Thank you,” Mycroft breathes.

_Oh, for crying out loud._

With an abrupt gesture Sherlock pushes back his chair. “I’ll go tell Cook we’ll have coffee on the terrace.” 

“Yes please, Sherlock.”

When he comes back on the terrace Mycroft and Michael are side by side, smoking, while holding hands, their fingers entwined. 

Resolutely averting his eyes Sherlock strides off to the chair closest to the edge of the terrace and flings himself into it, staring out at the garden with blind eyes.

Behind him Mycroft and Michael break apart and seat themselves at opposite sides of the table.

_Good._

Michael’s stare bores into the back of his head and Sherlock is convinced he can hear him thinking aloud, ‘you nasty, spoiled little brat’. 

Well, let him think.

***

A brief knock on his door. He closes the book he was reading and pushes himself up to a sitting position.

“Enter.”

Mycroft opens the door. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“No.” Sherlock moves his arm in a gesture of welcome. “No, of course not.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft walks over to the window and perches down on the window seat. After a brief hesitation Sherlock places himself next to him. His arm rubs against Mycroft’s. Mycroft continues sitting, easy and relaxed, and Sherlock lets his arm rest there, in Mycroft’s warmth.

“Are you glad to be home?” Mycroft makes his opening move.

“Yes.” Sherlock rejoins. “I went swimming together with John this morning and we visited Daddy’s grave after.”

“Good, that’s good. I haven’t been there for far too long but I understand John is keeping everything shipshape.”

“It’s the best maintained grave in the cemetery.”

“Ah well.” Discreetly, Mycroft scrapes his throat behind the screen of his hand. “There’s no better man in the realm to devote himself to the sad task.”

“No, I guess not.”

“No. Tell me, Sherlock, are you sleeping better? Now you’re back home.” His innocuous question is another demonstration of Mycroft’s uncanny ability to lay his finger on the sore spot. Sherlock gulps.

“Not really,” he confesses. 

Mycroft turns to look at him, his gaze slowly travelling up and down Sherlock’s form. “And you’re eating less well than I’d hoped you would. Cook is none too happy.”

“I explained to her…” Mycroft’s arm around his shoulder silences him. Suddenly he’s crying. Huge, racking sobs ripple through his body, one undulating wave after another, set rolling by an earthquake that stirred the bottom of the sea, deep inside his chest.

“There,” Mycroft murmurs. “There, there. Just cry, Sherlock. Let it all come out.” His fingers trail through Sherlock’s hair, scratching his scalp soothingly. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Mute, Sherlock nods, Mycroft’s finger pads hitting the strands of his hair like piano hammers. 

“Apologies,” he sniffles. “I try to fight it, this self-pity, I know it’s stupid.”

“No,” Mycroft says. “I forbid you to think that way. You’re making progress, Sherlock. I just wonder, maybe you’re too harsh on yourself. Also, are you certain you want to stay at that school? My offer to find you a tutor and come live with me still stands.”

“No!” Sherlock is astonished by his own vehemence. “I’m not a coward nor am I the one that should be ashamed. Fleeing that school would be the easy way out, not for me, but for them. Let them look at me, I don’t care. I don’t have friends anyway.” His hand flashes up to signal his dismissal of the notion.

“This sounds more like self-pity to me.” Mycroft’s voice is soft, a gentle reproach but still it’s too much. Instantly, it kindles a fire of hot anger in Sherlock’s chest and the next moment he has wrung himself free from Mycroft’s comforting arm.

“They’re all idiots,” Sherlock shouts. “I refuse to give them the satisfaction.”

“Sherlock, you talk as if your fellow pupils, the masters themselves, are your enemies. They’re not. At least, I made sure the school got rid of the ones that were.”

“You had Mr Harrow sacked. I _liked_ him.”

“He should have informed the Headmaster what happened during those rehearsals. He should have informed me. If he had done so I could have prevented… what you had to endure.” The combination of pompousness and sincerity on Mycroft’s face would be laughable in any other situation. Now, it’s almost an invitation to resort to violence.

Instead, Sherlock settles with gritting his teeth. “You’re not God himself, Mycroft, though I think you like to consider yourself so. That school is nothing but a hive of sex-crazed morons. No matter how hard you try, I won’t see it differently. But at least I’ve got one advantage now. No more team sports, no more acting and no more playing in the school orchestra. I’ll continue my studies there but I don’t want to interact with anyone.”

“Sherlock. What’s the difference with being tutored at home then?” Mycroft’s genuine puzzlement is what hurts the most.

“Can’t you see that, Mycroft?” he screams, suddenly unable to keep his temper. “Do you really not understand? Once I had it all, I had the best tutor of all the possible tutors in the world. And then you decided I had to go to that horrid school. You were the one that chucked me out of paradise, straight into hell. Now you come and want to rescue your poor little brother that got himself raped, to clear your conscience. I won’t let you, Mycroft. It’s _my_ hell and I’ll _wallow_ in it!”

His accusations are not wholly justified, he would have been sent to school at the age of twelve, even if Daddy had still been alive he would have had to say goodbye to Mr Talbot anyhow. Even while he’s raging his frustration at Mycroft a voice in his head tells him so but he blithely ignores it, for it feels good to be angry and Mycroft is blanching most gratifyingly under the onslaught of his outrageous words.  
He must be hitting some nerves then. Emboldened, he overrides the surging instinct to quit his shouting and attempt a return to the more tranquil atmosphere of goodwill that reigned in the room until just a few minutes ago.

There’s always time to do that – later – but for now he’ll enjoy the pandemonium. Enjoy it for the time it lasts.

***

He hates the snivelling, whimpering sounds that float down the corridor from behind the door of his mother’s room. He hates his mother for being so weak, so stupid. Allowing herself to become nothing but an addict, desperate for her pills. Christ, he won’t ever let that happen, even though he’s very glad right now with the leftover stock from his raid last Christmas. All he has to do is to avail himself of some more before the holiday ends – it would be bad form to ask Matron for some more and besides, he likes Mummy’s little blue ones far better. If only she would get out of that room so he could sneak in and lay his hand on a few strips.

***

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah, hello, Sherlock? What a coincidence to have you answering the phone.”

Sherlock cocks his eyebrows. “Well, it’s the summer holidays, where else would I be? How are you, Mr Whitall?”

“Oh, yes. This is me of course. How did you know?” Mr Whitall’s tone is all gratifying, genuine amazement. 

“I have absolute pitch and tonal memory,” Sherlock informs the violinist.

Mr Whitall laughs. “I could’ve expected that answer. How are you, Sherlock? I’d love to see you again. That’s why I called, to invite you to tea and to make a proposition.”

“A proposition? How intriguing. Where do you want to meet? I can cycle into the village and we can have tea in the tea shop over there. I don’t have any money, though.” 

“Oh no.” Mr Whitall laughs again. “No Sherlock, I’d like to invite you to tea to an address that will be very familiar to you. For you see, I’ve decided to settle in England once more, and… well… I’ve always loved the house and I thought it would be fitting to continue the musical tradition– ”

“You bought Mr Mancini’s house,” Sherlock rounds up the convoluted explanation.

“Yes.” 

“And you’re offering to take over from Mr Mancini,” continues Sherlock.

“Well, yes, Sherlock,” Mr Whitall confirms, sounding nervous all of a sudden. “That is, if you haven’t found yourself another teacher of course, because, you with your obvious talent. Christ, just listen to me, or don’t rather. I’ve never had pupils, so, maybe I’m being presumptuous.” His voice trails off.

“Not at all,” Sherlock assures him. “When would you like to meet?”

“This afternoon, around four-ish?”

“Fine. I’ll ask my brother to drop me off. Goodbye.”

“Sherlock, no, please. I can come over and collect you,” Mr Whitall interjects before Sherlock can replace the receiver.

Sherlock smirks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr Whitall,” he replies. “My brother will love to be of service.”

***

The house is just the same as Sherlock remembers it, except for the garden – which shows that plenty of time and well-directed effort will make even the most deprived earth in the whole of England blossom into flowery abundance – and the harpsichord that stands in the great bow window. 

“I’m not a very good player but I love the sound,” Mr Whitall explains. “It helps me to wind down after a long concert tour.”

They’re sitting in the small back garden, drinking their tea. It doesn’t taste too bad, considering the way it was prepared. Sherlock watched with growing astonishment how Mr Whitall plunked two bags into each mug, added boiling water, topped the concoction off with a liberal splash of milk straight out of the fridge and after three minutes started fishing around with a spoon to whip out the teabags. Sherlock hadn’t even known tea was available in these bags. It does seem a way more handy way to brew the stuff though the taste leaves something to be desired.

No doubt Cook would suffer a fatal stroke if she knew the apricot cherry cake she imposed upon Sherlock was to accompany such a barbaric draught.

“Nothing like the true brew,” Mr Whitall sighs contentedly after another sip. “That’s what I miss the most whenever I’m not in England, a good cuppa.”

Dutifully, Sherlock nods.

“Now, what did you play during the last school concert?” Mr Whitall asks.

A searching glance proves that he doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t know. Why should he? It’s not as if the whole world should be cognisant of Sherlock’s ordeal. In fact, he’d rather prefer nobody was aware of it.

“I was indisposed,” Sherlock informs Mr Whitall.

“Oh, what a pity.”

“Not really. They’re all second-rate players anyway, not a shred of talent among them.”

Mr Whitall does look rather taken aback, both at the judgment and at the speed with which it is being delivered. He cocks his eyebrows. “Ahem, don’t you think you’re a bit harsh?”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock answers decisively. “In my primary school there was a boy who played the cello and he was a proper musician. I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of playing with you and Mr Mancini, and I’ve been to Glyndebourne and the Royal Albert Hall a few times. I know what an orchestra is supposed to sound like. Those inept _morons_ wouldn’t know how to perform anything by John Philip Sousa.” He accompanies his estimate with a depreciating gesture of his hand.

Mr Whitall smiles around his bite of apricot cherry cake. “Are they that bad? Surely you’re exaggerating. At least, I hope so. Never mind. Look Sherlock. I honestly don’t understand why you haven’t started looking for another teacher after Mr Mancini’s death. And, like I told you, I’ve never had pupils, and besides, I don’t think there is much I can teach you. And I’m definitely not flattering you with that remark. Your talent is clearly bigger than mine ever was But…” He looks down at his hands, flexing and stretching his fingers. “You need someone to play with. I thought I could accompany you on the harpsichord. See whether I can direct you.”

“I’d like that, Mr Whitall. I’d like that very much. I didn’t want another teacher, not after Mr Manicini. I realise I’d have to start looking for one, obviously, if I want to improve my playing. I can’t teach myself, I understand that.”

“No.” Mr Whitall stands and wanders over to the _Constance Spry_ rose that has been valiantly trailing the garden wall through aeons of neglect. Now, it’s in full bloom, the big pink flowers swaying elegantly in the gentle breeze. “Whatever Mr Mancini was, and well, you’ll agree with me he was the best teacher one could wish for, he wasn’t much of an enthusiastic gardener, shame on him. Such a lovely rose, and he let it run to waste.” Bending over, he sniffs deeply. “Delicious. Well, shall we go inside? I’ve found us the music of Bach’s sonata in C minor. Let’s just start working from that. And you should also think about a piece of your own to play in the next school concert. Give the poor audience just one thing that’s actually worth listening to.”

***

Swiftly, he counts the number of strips with the little blue pills. There are twenty-one of them. He tries to warp his mind around the information. Their GP, that quiet, unobtrusive man, cloaked in a genteel light-grey summer raincoat of respectability that Sherlock encountered in the hall only two days ago, is in fact nothing but a drug dealer. 

Does Mycroft even know? Sherlock runs the question in his mind before concluding that, indubitably, he must do. After all, he’s the one signing the bills. The steeply rising bills, for the drawer contains even more goodies than the last time he went through it. So, between the two of them they must have decided a subdued Mummy whiling away her time at home, is far preferable to a deranged Mummy screaming her head off in an asylum. Well, Sherlock can’t detect any flaw in that logic. Especially not when he’s the one to reap the beneficial side effects of the arrangement.

It’s a relief he doesn’t have to take his own dealer responsibilities into account anymore as those _idiots_ won’t return the next term, having gone off to indulge their nasty habits at some university. All he has to consider are his own needs and those are simple enough. His sole aim is to keep the nightmares at bay. All he needs is anything, anything to repress them.

***

The school. It’s a journey he has to fulfil, apparently, even though he does not see the point of it. Nothing but a journey. How fitting it would be if the school gates were embellished with those dreadful words, _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate_.

Each day grinds on, lacklustre and dull, and virtually endless. His refusal to partake any longer in the lessons and activities of all the dreadful, infuriating bores gives him, briefly, a minor thrill. Mr Dickson expresses his serious disappointment when Sherlock tells him he won’t play in the school orchestra any longer. Mr Harrow’s successor invites him for a serious talk, bewailing the school’s loss of two of their best actors, but Sherlock just smiles and remains mute throughout the whole interview.

“Of course I understand you lived through a horrid experience.”

_No, you don’t, you stupid_ twat _! You understand_ fuck-all _. How could you? Hell, your eyes are practically eating me, you slimy pervert. You’d better stop your arguing now, or I’ll go to the Headmaster right this minute and tell him he’s hired himself a pederast._

His message is all too clear. A colour creeps up the cheeks of Mr Harrow’s successor, he falters, wipes his hands on a kerchief he fishes out of his jacket pocket, and suddenly stands to announce the decision is, naturally, Sherlock’s to make and he doesn’t want to impose on his time any longer. 

Even stupid, insufferable Coach looks dejected when Sherlock informs him sweetly he’s been granted absence from any team sports until he should want to participate again. Which is, frankly, never, but the fool doesn’t need to know that. Sherlock’s long legs and physical agility have served the school very well, withstanding Coaches bellowed protestations to the contrary. To casually conclude his dealings with the unspeakable boor is one of the most exhilarating things Sherlock has ever undertaken in his life.

Indulging these random raids of churlish behaviour, sanctified by his suffering, is gratifying while they last but their exhilarating effect has already worn off after a few hours. He continues his experiments under the benevolent eye of Mr Beckett, perusing the newspapers for interesting puzzles that baffle the police, and takes to playing his violin during the night as a means to ward off the nightmares, and infuriate his housemates both. Sadly, as Christmas draws nearer the brief effect of blissful liberation the blue pills provided him with starts wearing off.

For a while he contemplates taking two, but Mummy’s condition serves as a severe warning. _That_ is something he will simply never allow to happen. Instead, he succumbs to the equally satisfying but far less dangerous ecstasy of cigarettes. The habit brings the advantage of the kick of nicking them out of the most unlikely places. The high he experiences when near the end of the last term he manages to extract a packet out of his neighbour’s trouser pocket during yet another excruciating Sunday service, nearly surpasses the gratification he feels when he sits puffing one of his prizes in his hideout in the copse later that afternoon.

***

“All right,” David says. “I must be off again, Sherlock. We’ve got loads of work at the garage and I could barely spare the time.”

“My apologies for the inconvenience, David. And Mycroft’s as well. He kept repeating I must tell you we owe you and to send him a massive bill.”

“He needn’t worry,” David winks, and hops into the car. “See you, Sherlock.”

With screeching wheels he turns on the gravel and drives off, his hand emerging from the window to wave. Sherlock waves after him, before bending and picking up his suitcase.

He frowns at the state of the terrace stairs. Weeds are growing in the cracks between the steps. The terrace itself is in an equally bad condition. A shiver of alarm ripples down Sherlock’s spine. John would never allow for the terrace to deteriorate to its present condition. Something must be wrong…

Inside, he catches sight of Nanny hurrying up the stairs on her way to an impending crisis. She doesn’t even look back, so he surmises she hasn’t heard him enter. He puts his suitcase next to the vestibule and makes straight for the door to the servant stairs. 

Downstairs in the kitchen Brenda is just coming in through the backdoor carrying an untidy bunch of carrots, an inexpertly cut off crop of salad and a wicker basket filled with bruised raspberries. 

“Dear God,” Cook chokes. “Is there nothing you can do right, you stupid girl?”

“Sherlock?” Brenda breathes. Cook spins round on her heels to comical effect. For a moment she resembles nothing so much as a fluffy white ball. 

“Sherlock,” she cries and bounces over to stand on tiptoe and kiss him on his cheek. “My dear boy. David was quick about it, then. You’ll be desperate for some tea. Nanny has just gone up to your Mum, she’s not at all well, the poor woman, and we were just about to have some. I just needed me some raspberries to decorate the chocolate cake and now this…”

“Where’s John?” Sherlock cuts in on her litany of grievances, whether imagined or justified, the difference being of no consequence to him.

Cook sighs. “Well, you’d better sit down, Sherlock, and have yourself a cuppa and a slice… it will taste nice enough, even without the raspberries.” The last words are accompanied with an accusing glance in the direction of Brenda’s fleeing form.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Where’s John?” 

“Sit down, Sherlock.” Cook presses him into a seat with a firm hand. “There’s a good boy. Here’s your tea. John is at home, probably. He’s not been well these last few weeks. Didn’t say a word, silly man, but last week after we’d had our tea he suddenly winced and it was obvious he was in a lot of pain.” 

During her explanation she provides him with the tea, pouring it out of the pot and adding a splash of lemon and two spoons of sugar, just the way he likes it. “I told him to visit the doctor, but well, you know him, he’s nothing if not stubborn. Hopefully Mycroft will have a word with him. _He_ won’t be too pleased once he sees what the place looks like. Not that John hasn’t tried, mind you. Sherlock, where are you going?”

Sherlock is already near the back door.

“I’m off to see John,” he says and then he’s out the door and running to the gatehouse. It’s close to a mile, around the big pond, but he manages to cover the distance in just under seven minutes nevertheless. Once he grinds to a stop near the front door he hesitates. It seems a bit formal to ring the bell. Instead, he rounds the house and knocks on one of the backdoor’s windowpanes before lowering the door handle.

“John?” he calls out as he enters what’s obviously the main corridor. It’s strange to think in all the sixteen years of his life he’s passed the gatehouse numerous times but never actually been inside. For him, John’s domain has always been the shed, not this unfamiliar building.

“John!” He tries again, but there’s no answer. The door on his left opens onto the kitchen, obviously, and the one lying next to it must lead to the guardroom, so he raps his knuckles on the door to his right and opens it as he gets no answer.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight of the quiet form draped over the couch but suddenly the figure splutters and coughs and jolts upwards, causing the cushion and the photo album that were resting on its stomach to crash onto the floor.

“John!” Sherlock is nearly shouting with relief, even though John’s wasted appearance has given him a profound shock. 

“John.” The next instant finds him on his knees beside his beloved friend, reaching for the cushion, his lips curl involuntarily as he descries its Union Jack pattern, stashing it behind John’s back.

“John,” he says again, his voice thick with relief. 

John smiles up weakly at him. “Hello, Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

“I noticed the state of the terrace, and Brenda was gathering the veggies – doing it all wrong – and Cook told me you’re sick and refuse to go to the doctor, and… you must go to the doctor, John,” Sherlock babbles wildly. Before he realises his intent he has extended his hand and clasped John’s fingers in his, pressing them hard. He doesn’t let go until John winces. 

“I’m sorry. I was so worried,” he whispers, letting go of John’s fingers and sitting back on his haunches.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” says John. “It’s my fault really. I should be up and about instead of lying here, wasting your brother’s time.” Valiantly attempting to hide the grimace on his face he pushes himself up.

“No, John, stay.” Sherlock pushes John down on the sofa. “I’ll go and make us some tea.”

“Sherlock, no, I can’t allow you.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Please, John, I insist.”

Five minutes later he carries the tea tray into the living room to catch John in the act of stashing something into the sideboard. Upon his entry John turns around and the object falls from his trembling grasp.

“Sherlock,” he whimpers. His eyes are filled with the trepidation of a child that’s aware it’s incurred its parents’ wrath.

Hastily, Sherlock places the tray on a side table and walks up to John.

“You’d better lie down,” he says, bringing up his hand to steady John and then his gaze follows John’s and he gasps.

“Oh.” He sinks down to the floor and picks up the perfect small portrait bust, his fingers clamping themselves around the carved whorls and curls of his hair, as he looks down on the lines and planes of his face. Or no, not _his_ face, Daddy’s face. He recognises the quiet laughter in the wooden dead eyes. _His_ eyes never smile like that.

“Daddy?” he asks, but it’s not really a question and suddenly he understands. John nods and now he’s the one that has to help Sherlock leverage himself up from the bare floorboards and onto the sofa where they end up sitting next to each other, the bust nestled in John’s callused hands, cradled more tenderly than a babe in its mother’s arms.

“There’s more of them upstairs.” John lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “This one was nearly finished, only the collar left to be done. Somehow, that’s always difficult, to show how his throat rose from the collar, but then… Christ, he had such a beautiful throat. So long… and… oh.”

The bust drops into John’s lap and his hands fly up to cover his face.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. To you, with what happened, and well, you’re not like… oh damn… oh, damn it all.”

“Perhaps you should have some tea, John,” Sherlock says, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice. But then, he finds, he already knows what John is going to tell him. Has in fact been aware for as long as he can remember. The way they looked at each other while they were busy in the apiary, John’s reddened eyes when Daddy died. And the next moment Sherlock is back in the blue morning room, on his knees next to the sofa studying Daddy’s nails through his magnifier, and he hears Daddy’s voice, which – he realises with a sudden start – is so much like his own, _“I do hope you will find a John of your own one day Sherlock, because we all need a John. Just promise me one thing, if you do find him make sure you treat him better than I did mine.”_

“Yes, be calm and drink tea,” John sniffs. “The great British solution to end all misery. Oh God, Sherlock. I miss him, I miss him every day of my life.”

“John… I –”

“He was my one true love. And I his. God, the plans we made. He was going to be a famous violinist, and I would be his chauffeur and general busybody, and together we were going to conquer the world. Here…” His face contorted with pain, he reaches down next to him to retrieve the, now closed, photo album, and positions it in Sherlock’s lap.

“There, that’s us. Young and madly in love with each other. You don’t have to look if you think it’s disgusting. You… real love, to truly love another person is the most wonderful thing that can ever happen to you, Sherlock. I… well, we grew up together of course, to me, at first, he was nothing but that annoying toddler that followed me everywhere, and then he became the kid I taught to swim and how to make a fire, and all the other mischief boys get into…” The afternoon light that falls through the window panes lights up his face, throwing its aging lines in stark relief with the misty softness of his eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want the tea, John?” Sherlock interrupts him. “It will give your hands something to hold onto.” He himself is in desperate need of some tea. For he’s still not quite sure whether he wants to listen to this, whether he will be able to stomach what John is telling him. But John is his friend, and – Sherlock realises – aching to tell his story to sympathetic ears. Most of all, John is the person that, after Sherlock, must love Daddy, the remembrance of Daddy, the most. More than Mycroft, more than Mummy, decidedly more than Mummy ever could. Even the thought that they must have engaged in… _that_ isn’t as repulsive as he’d have reckoned it to be, had he ever considered the notion.

_“No, John. You must kiss me first. After ‘I take’.”_

_“What? No! I can’t do that.”_

_“What? Why ever not?”_ Now he knows why, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t been blind he would have known then. Everyone else must know.

“Oh yes,” John sighs. “Mycroft knows. Your mother took care to start poisoning him early enough. You were your father’s boy, always, she knew she wouldn’t have a chance, not with you… And Mr Talbot saw it, of course, but all he did was pity me. Perhaps… but no, once Sherlock had decided he was duty-bound to love your mother he managed it. She was… when he first brought her here, oh, she was besotted with him. Oh God, I could have killed her, killed her with the jealousy… for she had stolen what was mine. Or well, that’s what it felt like. There was no other way, I understood that. If he hadn’t made the choice himself, I would have forced him to. Selling the estate that had been his family’s since… since… I believe it was his great-great-grandfather that bought it.”

John shakes his head and caresses the wooden cheek resting in his lap. “Your mother found out about us three months into the marriage. She caught us looking at each other, just a look, but it was enough. She was sharp, and jealous, always jealous. We… Sherlock, you must believe me, the night he came down from Oxford to tell me he’d found your mother and asked for her hand, was the last night we spent together. He hasn’t been unfaithful to your mother, not once, not so much as a kiss, even though I was half-mad with longing sometimes. Once, working together in the orchard his arm accidentally brushed mine and it felt like fireworks had erupted all over my arm and he was the boy I’d once been free to make love to, to hold… he had been mine, body and soul.”

“Oh God,” John shudders. “I’m but a simple man, Sherlock. Of course I considered going away, I wasn’t that old, only thirty-one, but all I could do was garden work and besides, the thought of never seeing him again. Christ no, never. If I had to live in hell I’d rather do it where I could at least rest my eyes on him every now and then. And then you were born and it was like I was hurled back in time for even as a babe you were the spitting image of him, and then you grew bigger and I had to love you, love you so much for in you I saw him and…” Suddenly he clasps his hand in front of his mouth, “Not like that, Sherlock, never like that. I know you are his child, I would never…”

“Hush, John,” Sherlock shushes. “I understand.” He laughs, short and panicked. “God, John. I… I don’t know what to make of all this. I should have known, should have observed better, suddenly so much is clear to me. Nanny’s attitude. Mummy’s hatred of you. Christ, she must loathe the thought of someone having loved her precious Sherlock even better than she was capable of.”

“No, Sherlock. That’s wrong. Your mother loved your Daddy,” John protests.

“As she demonstrates so well by the devoted care she bestows upon the upkeep of his grave,” snarls Sherlock. “Christ, John. How could he do this to you? To you of all men?”

“He had no choice, Sherlock. He had less freedom than I had. I could have gone away but he had to save the estate.”

“Really? I don’t see why.”

“Oh,” John waves his hand impatiently. “That’s just stupid and you know it, Sherlock. Or you should ask Mycroft if you don’t. He could explain it well enough. In the real world one doesn’t choose the gardener over the estate. Those fairy stories only happen in novels.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly and John sighs. “Lady Chatterley’s lover. We all read it because it was forbidden and for the racy sex. Not that it was to my taste exactly, but well…” His voice trails off and he rubs his hands over his face again. “Your Daddy made the right decision,” he concludes.

His hands brush the bust again while Sherlock takes another sip of his tea. What John is saying has a ring of truth to it for if Daddy had decided otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here next to John. But then, if Daddy had made that other choice – the one that feels so much like the right choice – he himself would still be alive, and now… 

“Look, Sherlock,” John interrupts his thoughts. “After what that boy did to you, and well, you’re different from anyone your age I’ve ever known, I beg your pardon for speaking so freely to you. So I hope hearing this old man confess that, yes, he fell madly in love with your Daddy when your Daddy was but fourteen years old, and yes, he kissed your Daddy with your Daddy’s consent when your Daddy was all but sixteen, doesn’t revolt you too much. I loved him, Sherlock, loved him with all my heart. Every day I wish it had been me that was blown to bits that day and, oh God, the thought they did that to him, to his beautiful body, to my darling love… Oh, my love…”

To Sherlock’s dismay he starts to cry, vehemently, his shoulders heaving with the effort. 

“John, please,” Sherlock says, but he’s lost him, at least for now and perhaps letting go of his tears will help John. Briefly, Sherlock considers stroking John’s arm before deciding John would probably prefer not being touched. Instead, Sherlock opens the album on his lap. It’s mostly photographs of Daddy and, except for the cut of the clothes, it’s like looking at himself in a mirror. There are some photographs of Daddy and John together, posing for a camera that’s set up on a tree stump or other flat surface. The look they throw each other is the look Mycroft and Michael share sometimes, or the looks he remembers from Daddy and Mummy, but this one is more intense, more profound. Sherlock drags up his memories of Daddy and wonders, has he ever seen Daddy look this carefree and completely, genuinely happy? He can’t remember. 

Twisting his mouth he closes the album with a loud thud. 

“John,” he says. “Thank you for telling me, John. I must think about this. It’s… well… it’s all been a bit much, to be honest. I came to see how you’re doing. Are you… is there anything you want me to do for you?”

John lifts his head out of his hands, eyes red from crying. He sniffs. “No, no, it’s best you go now, Sherlock. You can come back, tomorrow if you’d like to. Don’t worry about me, it’s nothing, just stomach pains. It will pass.”

“Fine. I mean, if you think it’s fine. I… I’m so sorry John. I’m so sorry for everything that happened. And for not grasping it, earlier. Please, I’ve never wanted to hurt you. You must believe me.” 

He’s gibbering again, unsure what to so with himself. Somehow, it feels wrong to leave John in his present state. On the other hand, he really doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort his friend. He _needs_ to be by himself now, to make sense of what he’s heard. 

He turns back but John intercepts him with a shooing motion of his hand and a brave attempt at a smile. Momentarily, Sherlock wavers only to find himself on the doorstep all of a sudden. “I’ll be off then,” he says. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and… John, thank you. Thank you for loving Daddy so much.”

 

End of Book III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks to everyone who has been reading so far and my most special thanks to everyone who’s rewarded me with their lovely, encouraging, often insightful comments that helped me to keep writing.  
> There will be more, of course, but right now I’m busy with another WIP which will have to be finished before S3 starts airing. Sadly, that leaves no time for this series.  
> It is, however, to be continued in the, hopefully near, future.  
> Thank you all!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dolor Hic Tibi Proderit Olim (someday this pain will be useful to you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018288) by [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl)
  * [Perfer et Obdura fanart: “Daddy and John”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538721) by [DulcimerGecko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko)




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